


The Pool

by youvebeenlivingfictional



Category: Den of Thieves - Fandom
Genre: (Honestly like what is instant gratification I don't know her), (as always), Alcohol, Angst, Canon-Typical Sexism, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, Pregnancy, Pregnant Character, Vaginal Sex, cursing, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27788977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youvebeenlivingfictional/pseuds/youvebeenlivingfictional
Summary: So day one, Henderson starts a pool that you’re not gonna last the week.
Relationships: Benny Borracho Magalon/Reader, Benny Borracho Magalon/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	1. The Pool

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah this got way away from me. Wow. Wowowow.

The guys are putting bets on you the second you start working in the Major Crimes Unit at the LA County Sheriff’s Department. The first bet is whether or not you’re gonna make it the week.

  
Thing is, most of the work you do at first is systems maintenance, so you come in in the morning, give whoever’s there a wave, then sit down and put your headphones on. The guys think you have music playing. But you _don’t._ They’re all pretty damn polite when your headphones are off, but when your headphones are in your ears with no music playing, not only do they swear like sailors, but they talk about _you_. Openly.  
  
You’d expected that. You’d known going in that it was a boy’s club - Big Nick had warned you himself when he’d interviewed you. He’d asked you if you’d be uncomfortable, and you’d told him that you didn’t give a shit, that you were going in to do a job and that you would get it done. Hell, he’d hired you on the spot.  
  
So day one, Henderson starts a pool that you’re not gonna last the week. Frankly, you’d only been there an hour, so you try not to feel to offended, but _damn_ , dude, let a girl settle in, you haven’t even set up your fucking email yet. Your fingers don’t even stop moving over the keys as he announces it to the office. You feel a couple of guys turn their heads to look at you, but you don’t flinch, don’t blink, don’t turn your head away from your monitor to give any indication that their voices are only slightly muffled by your earphones.  
  
“I’ll take that action,” Zapata chimes in once (he thinks) the coast is clear.  
  
“I don’t know, kid looks kinda tough,” Connors shakes his head, and that puts one point in his favor; you make a mental note to update his computer first, and if the guys ask why, you’ll just say that you’re going in alphabetical order.  
  
“Alright that’s one against– What about you, Borracho, you gettin’ in on the action?” Henderson asks the man with the desk adjacent to yours. You feel another gaze flit back to you. Still, you don’t turn to meet it. There’s a pause before you hear, “Nah.”  
  
Simple. Flat.  
  
“C’mon man, why not?” Henderson presses. You’re kinda curious yourself, but you really aren’t in a position to press; looking at ‘ _Borracho_ ’ (Nick had introduced him as ‘Magalon’ in the same way he’d introduced all of the guys by their surnames) would call attention to the fact that you could hear them.  
  
“Big Nick picked her, right?” Boraccho points out. There are a few mutters of, “Right.”  
  
“Right,” Is the resounding argument topper that Boraccho answers with; it’s said with a finality and Henderson doesn’t push it.  
  
“Alright that’s three to one odds. It’s not lookin’ good, Connors,” Zapata chuckles.  
  
“Loser takes care of the winner’s paperwork,” Henderson tacks on.  
  
“Sounds like a good deal to me.”  
  
“It would, I’m the only one with odds that the kid can hack it,” Connors muttered.  
  
“Maybe don’t say ‘hack’,” You hear Nick come into the office behind you all. He passes in front of your desk, shooting you a questioning look. You finally lift your eyes from your screen, giving him a quick nod before looking back down.  
  
–  
  
By the end of week one, Connors is vindicated (and paper-work free). You’re in one piece, have hardly spoken a word to the rest of the guys. As they all file out of the office, heading for drinks at a bar down the block, you hear a knock on your desk. You glance up and do a double-take when you spot Boraccho standing in front of you. You pull one of your earbuds (which still isn’t playing any music) out and look up at him, brows raising.  
  
“You wanna come grab a drink with us?”  
  
You’re surprised by the invite, but shield it carefully.  
  
“Can’t, I’ve still gotta finish up here. Thanks, though.”  
  
“Sure. Night.”  
  
“See ya,” You shoot him a quick smile before lifting the earbud to your ear again. You wait until they’re all out of the office before actually turning on some music.  
  
–  
  
The crass jokes or the occasional comments about your body start to roll right off of you after the second week. When they’re not working, they seem to be making little bets all the time; about who’s gonna make it to the office late the next day; about who’s gonna fail their piss test at the end of the week; about whether or not Big Nick is gonna ask for the Pepto that day (usually depends on how rough the guy looks in the morning; Borracho usually wins that one, which seems to explain why the Pepto lives in his desk).  
  
Thing is, you seem to be their new favorite betting topic - whether or not you’re a Dunkin or a Starbucks drinker (the answer is Starbucks, but you have them put it in your travel mug, so none of the guys know or win that one); about whether or not you’re single (you are; they haven’t wormed that answer out of you); about whether or not Big Nick wants to bang you (you don’t think he does, but even if he did, it would not happen because the feeling is not mutual).  
  
Henderson starts the pool about your sticking through the end of the month in your third week there. Zapata again agrees that you won’t stick; Connors sides with you. This time, Borracho sides with you, too.  
  
“Seriously?” Henderson asks, “The hell, man?”  
  
“She talked Connors’ dumb ass into setting up multi-factor authentication thing that the department’s been riding us to get done, so I think she can handle just about anything.”  
  
You have to bite down on the inside of your lip to keep from cracking a smile. That had been the week before - you’d been sure Connors had just been putting you on when he’d asked for your help, but halfway through your explanation, you’d realized that the guy understood how it worked, he just hated it (“But if I have my password–” “People can steal your password, Connors.” “This one is unstealable.” “Just download the app–” “The app could get hacked!” “Oh my god–”).  
  
–

“You should loosen up a bit.”  
  
It’s Nick that says so.  
  
It’s not a surprise that he makes the comment; you’ve been working with the department for nearly four months and you still hardly talk to the guys if it isn’t work-related. You don’t live in your headphones anymore; they still make plenty of comments and bets about you, ask you if you’d prefer a salted caramel mocha frappachino or a Shakerato (you thought they were making up that second one, but then you saw a sign in the window at the Dunkin near your apartment). They haven’t exactly tried to meet you in the middle; apart from that one initial invite from Borracho, they leave you out of social gatherings.  
  
Look, you’re not complaining.  
  
But you also understand that your longevity with this office also, unfortunately, kinda hinges on you fitting in with them.  
  
So when Nick announces the next day that everyone’s clearing out to grab drinks, you know that that means you, too. So you shut your monitor down and grab your jacket. The room goes kinda quiet, kinda tense; when you look up, you catch sight of the guys glancing away from you to each other, unsure.  
  
You roll your eyes.  
  
“I can’t just keep taking swigs from the bottle in Connors’ desk that he thinks no one knows about,” You say. Nick snorts a laugh, most of the rest of the guys chuckle (save for Connors, who’s muttering swears up and down that there’s nothing in his desk even though you all know that that’s a lie). It doesn’t matter, anyway; no one hears Connors’ protest over Nick’s yell of, “Newbie buys the first round!” 

–  
  
Even nestled among the guys, you’re still pretty quiet. It’s just– well, they’re a little intimidating. Not their looks, not their smack-talk. Their dynamic. They’re so comfortable with each other, it’d be hard for anyone to muscle in on it.  
  
“So how’d you get into this, anyway?”  
  
It’s Henderson that asks.  
  
“This?” You repeat.  
  
“Yeah, you know. Computers.”  
  
You know it’s a set-up. The guys have a bet going on how you wound up working in tech. So you lean back in your seat and shrug and say, “The way anyone gets into it, I guess.”  
  
The guys trade looks, but no one will say a word about it; Borracho huffs a short laugh through his nose beside you, just quiet enough for you to hear. He’s the only one that didn’t bother to try and guess how you got into it. Borracho seems to be getting pretty bored of the guys betting about you. You drain your beer before you sit up again.  
  
“You guys need another one?” You ask. There’s a wave of grumbled, “No”s and you stand and head for the bar. You lean against it and wait for the bartender to finish with a group down at the end. You can only imagine that the others are deciding that no one won that one - maybe Henderson’s asking for another pass, he’s got a round of drinks riding on this one.  
  
“So how long have you known?”  
  
You glance over when you hear the question; Borracho settles at the bar beside you, setting his now-empty beer on the counter (wasn’t it half-full when you left the table?).  
  
“Known?” You ask.  
  
“About the bets,” He clarifies, and arches a brow. You’re caught.  
  
“You’re a group of loud talkers and you’re not super subtle guys,” You say before facing forward again. Borracho chuckles quietly, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what it is about ‘em with those damn pools all the time. I mean they did them sometimes before but it’s way worse with you around.”  
  
“I don’t know. Makes sense to me– You guys gamble with your lives all the time, must be able to gamble on the mundane.”  
  
Once the bartender takes both your orders, you nudge Borracho’s arm with your own. 

“So who’s got the highest bid back there?”  
  
“Nick.”  
  
“That tracks. Nick interviewed me, so he knows the truth and he’d know if I lied.”  
  
Borracho snorts.  
  
“I don’t think those fools even considered that when they were placing their bets,” He chuckles.  
  
“You gonna tell them that I know?” You ask.  
  
“Nah…Though I’m wondering how many other ones you know about.”  
  
You smile as the bartender sets your drinks down.  
  
“I can keep a secret, detective, just like you can.”  
  
Borracho frowns, “Secret?”  
  
“I know you saw me in Starbucks last week,” You wink at him before you pick your beer up and head back to the table.  
  
–  
  
Things are a little easier after that. You wear your headphones only when you absolutely need to zone in on your work - it signals to the guys that you’re really busy, they let you at it. They invite you out for drinks, or lunch, and you take them up on it now and again. The bets don’t stop. They don’t make them in the office now, though, they make them when they’re out on calls.  
  
You know so because Borracho texts you and keeps you updated.  
  
Sometimes, depending on what’s for grabs, you text him and tell him the answer as long as he cuts you in for half. It’s infrequent enough that no one’s caught on to your scheme yet. So far, though, the two of you have split one box of donuts, one six pack of beer, and a $20 Starbucks gift card (he was horrified that you basically only bought one thing with your half because you added a lot of espresso to your coffee; he even sprang for a morning bun for you out of his half, saying that you were going to get jittery without anything else in your stomach).  
  
You like Borracho.  
  
No, not like _that_.  
  
I mean sure, the guy is nice to look at, but you don’t know him very well beyond work.  
  
Borracho is a nice workplace pal. He’s smart, attentive; he keeps a lot of notes, you notice that about him. Borracho likes to handwrite his notes. You wonder if it’s because he remembers things better that way, or if it’s because he can take the notes home and look them over that way. Does he type them up and send them around for the guys or are they just his?  
  
You never ask him, just watch him hunch over his notepad and jot down things quickly. Does he use shorthand or is he just a fast writer?  
  
You catch yourself staring in the middle of one of his jot-athons more than once and you always force yourself to refocus on the work in front of you. The guys don’t notice, which is lucky; usually if Boraccho’s writing something down it’s because they’re in the middle of a briefing or a brainstorm, so they’re occupied. It’s not that you can’t take a little ribbing about looking at the guy, of course, it’s just…Well, Boraccho’s kinda the only one there that you sort of consider a friend. You don’t wanna make things weird. 

– 

“What about the kid?” 

The suggestion comes from Connors. You’ve only got one headphone in, so it’s not strange when you lift your head at this question. The guys have turned to look at you, too. 

The team is smack in the middle of a murder investigation - the wife of a gubernatorial candidate Joshua Sutton has died and it looks fishy. FBI has thrown it to Major Crimes, and it winds up with your team. The guys have been authorized for a bug and a wiretap on Sutton’s laptop, but they need to get the bug and the wiretap in the building themselves.  
  
His apartment building has round-the-clock security - guards and cameras; Sutton has two personal bodyguards, and a state of the art security system besides. He’s also condemned the additional prying into the circumstances surrounding his wife’s death - even made a commercial, asking for “the dignity that ought to be afforded any man that’s just lost the love of his life.” He even managed to muster a single tear. The commercial had been filmed in his penthouse - he was wearing plain clothing, came off all casual - you were able to spot a personal laptop in the background, a USC decal stuck on the left hand side of the keyboard, beside the track pad.  
  
Thing is, Sutton’s also known on the down-low for throwing parties in his penthouse downtown. They haven’t stopped since the ‘tragic incident’. You’d already done some digging, had managed to find a few videos and stories of them on Instagram that the guy’s PR team hadn’t been able to catch and pull down. In one of the videos you found, a woman had been in Sutton’s bedroom, high and giggling; his laptop had been on the desk behind her - same USC sticker.  
  
The guys have been trying to figure out how to get into one of those parties - they’re invite only, you’ve gotta know the code. Borracho’s got a friend from back in the day that can get people in – all that’s left is the hardware. 

Hence Connors’ suggestion. 

Henderson had floated the idea of two of the guys going in and hiring girls to go in with them, but Zapata had pointed out that left too many unknowns; the girls weren’t with the department; anything happens to them, it’s on the team.

“You up for getting your hands dirty?” Nick asks. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Borracho shuffling a little; you think he might be shaking his head.

–

“You nervous?”

“No.”

You’re lying, but if Borracho can tell, he doesn’t call you out on it. He just reaches into the backseat of his cat and grabs the hardware kit. He passes it to you and watches you open your purse and pull out two empty plastic test tubes with stoppers and wrappers. 

“What is that?” He asks. 

“Fake tampons. Usually used as booze tubes,” You explain, “But it should work for this. I mean, if Sutton’s got a bodyguard checking bags at the door, I doubt they’re gonna reach in to make sure my tampons are actually tampons.” Borracho looks a little impressed, and you let yourself revel in that as you load the two bugs into their own tubes before sealing them in the wrappers.  
  
“Where do you even find fake tampons for booze?”  
  
“You kidding?” You ask, tucking the tampons away, “I’ve got a bag with a lining that can hold a full bottle of wine.”  
  
“Can’t believe Nick was worried about you fitting in.”

–

Once you’re out of the car, Borracho’s hand settles in your lower back, steering you into the building. The outfit you wound up wearing is a set with a short black skirt and a tank top with a cut-out strap that reveals a strip of your stomach and back. Borracho’s hand is warm, a little rough against the few spots where it sits against your skin. You can analyze why that’s making your stomach flip later. 

Once you’re in the elevator, Borracho leans against the wall and watches you for a moment. 

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“I feel like if you were going to try to sincerely talk me out of this, you should’ve done it in the car,” You say, and he holds his hands up in concession before he glances over to watch the digital dial flip number after number as the elevator rises to the penthouse. 

Borracho’s opted for a black t-shirt that hugs his form, as well as a dark pair of jeans; he’s forgone a jacket - it’s May in fuckin’ Los Angelos, what would he need it for? 

You turn your head as the elevator slows, reaching the top. Borracho straightens and loops an arm around your shoulders. 

“I won’t leave you alone in there,” He promises softly before the doors can open. 

A bodyguard does check your bag, pokes around in it, but your hunch is right. Once he spots the red and pink wrappers of your fake tampons, he recoils and waves the two of you inside. 

It’s easy to lean into Borracho’s side once you two are in. The two of you drift through the packed revelers that are all drunk, high, and coked out of their minds; you grab beers and take the odd swigs from them. You’re both careful not to get too suckered into conversation with people while you mill around. 

The beers get ditched in the living room as you venture deeper into the apartment. The two of you check Sutton’s office first, just in case; the drawers are locked, but you plant the first bug in the further most corner under his desk, where anyone’ll be least-likely to knock it or spot it if they bends down to pick up something. 

It takes the two of you a while to find the bedroom, and when you do, there are two girls in there. One is sniffling, the other is trying to console her. So you take Borracho’s hand and step a little closer and murmur to them, “So sorry, but– Do you think me and my man could get some privacy?” 

And they’re not happy about it, but they gather themselves and they go. You drop his hand and shut the door behind them before turning to the desk in the room. 

“Your man?” He asks, and you can hear the teasing in his voice.

“It got them out of here, didn’t it?” You point out, “Check the bookshelf.” 

The drawers on this desk are locked, too, and you can’t help the irritated swear that leaves you. 

“Hey,” Borracho draws your attention, and you turn your head to see him unearth an upright closed laptop from between a few books. He brings it over to the desk and opens it. You allow yourself a half-second of relief when you see the USC sticker. You put your purse on the desk and open the second fake tampon, popping the lid off of the tube and shaking the USB loose. You plug it in, then open your phone to monitor the program uploading.

“How long is this going to take?” Borracho sounds as impatient as you feel; your foot won’t stop bouncing, your heart is pounding. He’s casting nervous glances at the door, tensing when the two of you hear footsteps or voices that get too close. 

“‘Bout… Another twenty seconds,” You tell him, eyes darting between the laptop and your phone.

You can hear someone coming closer – You recognize Sutton’s voice. 

“I know,” You say before Borracho can warn you. You pick your phone and the laptop up and walk over to the bookshelf with them. This is risky - the bookshelf is in the direct eyeline of the door. 

“The fuck are you–”

“Ssh!” You hush Borracho as your phone chomes, signalling that the program has loaded. You snap the laptop shut and yank the USB out, tucking the laptop back where he found it. Then you take a few steps deeper into the room, waving him closer and holding your hand out. He frowns, but he takes hold of your hand. You draw him over to the window, shoving the USB in his pocket before nudging him back against the sill. 

You turn, leaning back against his chest and pulling the camera up on your phone. 

“Just play along,” You mumble, holding the phone up.

You hear the doorknob turn and the creaking of the door opening; you feel Borracho’s hands sliding over your hips, anchoring you to him; the image on your screen could be of a couple - cute, sweet. You take one picture of the two of you, then another. You nudge Borracho even as Sutton steps into the room; you tease him,

“Would it kill you to smile?”

You set up to take another; he swoops in, arms wrapping around your middle as he presses a kiss to your cheek, and you can’t help but laugh as you take the picture. 

“Excuse me.” 

Sutton’s voice rings through the room. You lower the phone and lean back into Braccho’s chest, allowing a confused expression to fill your features. 

“You can’t be in here,” Sutton steps aside to let you leave. 

“See, babe? Told you,” Borracho pinches your side, and you reach back, slapping at his shoulder. You wriggle out of his grasp and grab your purse from the desk before the two of you are skirting around Sutton, step out into the hall; you catch the eye of a woman that you spoke to on your way, and she waves. Borracho’s hand is clasped around yours as you hurry out of the apartment. 

–

“… All good…Nah, kid handled it like a champ,” Borracho’s reporting to Big Nick. You’re trying not to preen in the passenger seat. The adrenaline and nerves are starting to wear off, and you’re a little sleepy, but you really don’t want to pass out in the guy’s car. I mean he just said that you handled it like a champ for cryin’ out loud. You can almost hear it now: “ _kid handled it like a champ…And then she k’d the fuck o in my car like a fuckin’ toddler_ ”.  
  
“Alright… Yeah, I’ll let her know.”  
  
You glance over as Borracho sets his phone down into one of his cup holders.  
  
“Bug’s transmitting loud and clear, and the laptop’s already kicking data over to the office.”  
  
“Sweet,” You nod, relieved, “You can drop me off there.”  
  
Borracho throws you a sidelong glance, brow furrowed.  
  
“The office?” He tries to clarify.  
  
“Yeah? I wanna see what we’re getting.”  
  
“I’m taking you home.”  
  
“I’m telling you not to.”  
  
“Look,” Borracho turns his head to get a better look at you when you two pull up at a red light, “The only people in the office right now are the janitorial staff and Nick. Neither of them are gonna be a good time.”  
  
He’s right, which is unfortunate; it doesn’t help that you’re tired, otherwise you’d argue just a little harder.  
  
“…Fine,” You say after a moment, facing forward. Borracho does the same. The rest of the car ride is silent. When he pulls up outside of your apartment building, you sit up in your seat.  
  
“Night,” You say.  
  
“Night– Hey,” Borracho adds, and you turn back to him when he stops you, “You did good tonight.”  
  
You’re surprised by his making a point to say so, and you smile a bit.  
  
“…Thanks,” You say after a moment before tacking on, “You were alright.” You pick your purse up off of the floor of the car as you hear Borracho scoff a laugh.  
  
“Smartass,” He mutters.  
  
“But I’ve got a _cute_ ass,” You counter before getting out of the car. You sort of can’t believe you’ve said so, but it’s…Too late, you’re already out of the car and telling yourself to just walk away because the damage is already done. So you don’t bother to look back at the car until you’re unlocking the door. He’s still there, and you give him a quick wave before stepping inside.  
  
You practically sleepwalk through talking off your makeup and getting changed. Once you’re in bed, you pick up your phone and scroll through your notifications. When you open your phone, it’s on your camera roll, and a picture of you and Borracho is right there. It’s the first one you took. You’re looking right at the camera; Borracho’s eyes are set elsewhere, at where Sutton was coming in. You swipe to the next one - Borracho’s looking at the camera now, brows raised, his expression one of… Ease, almost. You swipe to the last one, and you feel warmth spread through your chest at the sight of Borracho kissing your cheek, and you grinning and laughing. It seems like such a soft moment for a man that, even in more relaxed moments, has always been somewhat gruff.  
  
You delete the first two, but when you come to the last one, your finger hovers over the little trash can icon. You bite your lip. No one’s gonna know if you keep it, right?  
  
You save it to an album and hide it from your camera roll before you set your phone aside, closing your eyes.

–  
  
It takes a while for the bug or the wiretap to pick up anything. You’re walking by Zapata’s desk a week later as he scans through footage from the guy’s video conferences when you stop.  
  
“Hey, stop,” You lean against the back of his chair, leaning over his shoulder, “Go back like…Ten seconds?”  
  
He complies and you frown. It’s not a _complete_ view of the woman’s face, but it’s enough to be recognizable.  
  
“I’ve seen that woman.”  
  
“Where?” Zapata asks.  
  
“She was at the party.”  
  
Boraccho and Nick are at your side in seconds, peering over Zapata’s head.  
  
“You’re sure?” Nick asks.  
  
“Yeah, she complimented me on my eyeliner.”  
  
“You were wearing eyeliner?” Henderson asks.  
  
“Okay, how made up I was at the time is kinda immaterial in relation to the rest of the anecdote.”  
  
“She say what her name was?” Borracho presses.  
  
“Cat? I had cat-eye, she made a joke it being her eyeliner– she was _really_ drunk–”  
  
“I thought cat-eye was a marble.”  
  
“I’m not giving you all a fucking makeup tutorial, Connors.”  
  
“Unless we can tie her to Sutton, it doesn’t help us,” Nick pipes up behind you.  
  
You push away from Zapata’s desk and walk over to your computer, pulling up a campaign rally, then the press conference about Sutton’s wife, then the commercial clip asking for peace.  
  
“C’mere,” You wave them over. The guys gather around your desk and watch you play a few seconds of the clips. You point out Cat in each of them, standing close to Sutton.  
  
“She was in the hall with him when we were leaving,” You remind Borracho, looking up at him, “She at least works for his campaign - If you give me a crack at the recordings from the bug, I bet I can identify her voice again.”  
  
“Do it,” Nick nods firmly, “Borracho, see if you can get a subpoena for her finances, her emails–”  
  
“On it,” Borracho answers. The others go about their business. A hand lands on your shoulder, and you glance up to see Borracho. He gives your shoulder a squeeze, gives you a nod and a wink before heading back to his desk.  
  
–  
  
“Ah, nope. You’re not paying for any drinks tonight,” Nick waves your wallet away, “You just busted your first case wide open.”  
  
“Is it just the first case that’s free, or…?”  
  
“Don’t push it, newbie,” Zapata shakes his head, and you smile, tucking your wallet back into your pocket and leaning back in your seat. You’re all in a good mood - the case had been long, but Nick had been able to unpin all of the photographs from the board once Cat had broken down and confessed to the murder of Sutton’s wife.  
  
You’re less quiet with the guys tonight, more one of them. They rib you, but you rib them right back (“So can we just move back to cat-eye–” “If you really want, sure, Connors, I’ll bring in my makeup bag tomorrow and we can make you real pretty. You have a date coming up? How do you feel about ditching the beard?”) 

Borracho is at your side again, arm brushing yours now and again when he reaches for his beer, thigh brushing yours when he shifts in his seat; his arm is thrown over the back of your chair. He doesn’t touch your shoulder or anything, you’re just…Very aware of where his arm is. You don’t think anything of it; when he gets up to grab the next round of drinks, Connors’ arm takes over. It’s a matter of having a perch, you tell yourself, Borracho’s just getting comfortable.  
  
You tap out before the rest of the guys, head home knowing you have an early shift (and a piss test later in the week).  
  
You’re half asleep when your phone buzzes at 2AM with a text that says: _**Still have those pictures?**_  
  
You frown. Pictures. He can’t possibly mean…  
  
You reply _?_  
  
_**From Sutton’s place.**_

You bite your lip. You do have that one - where he’s kissing your cheek. What’s he asking for, anyway? Blackmail? A pool?  
  
_You going swimming?_  
  
_**Clever, techie.**_

 _That’s not a yes or a no, so._  
  
_**It’s not a pool.**_  
  
_Promise?_  
  
_**Cross my heart.**_  
  
God, for some stupid, stupid reason, you believe him. You open your phone album and tap on the picture of the two of you. What will he think that you’ve kept one, let alone the fact that you’ve kept that one?  
  
_I don’t have them._  
  
He doesn’t reply to that one. You’re wide awake now, though, and your head is buzzing with questions.  
  
_Why are you asking?_  
  
He doesn’t reply to that one, either.  
  
– 

  
Things in the office are…Fine. You still assist the guys with cases, you still pal around with them. They still place bets on you – whether or not you’re an only child (you don’t really talk about your family when you’re in the office, so no one’s got a lead on that one); if you’re a cat or a dog person (you’re tempted to lie and tell one of them that you prefer lizards); what your favorite color is. Borracho’s told you about all of these - you told him all of the answers, but he hasn’t claimed any of the pools. Sometimes you consider sending him that picture, but as it gets further and further away from when he’s asked, you just can’t bring yourself to. You’re sure that it’ll be weird.  
  
–

It’s pure coincidence, honestly.  
  
It’s been a shitty week, you’ve been buried under a mountain of work lately, and some friends convince you to go out with them. You worked a double shift - overnight into the next day; you’ve got the following day off, which is good, because you know that you’ll need it to recover.  
  
Your best friend, Annalise, comes over to help you get ready. She’s prodding, knows you haven’t had any fun lately.  
  
“Come on, go a little crazy tonight– Oh,” She gasps, turning to you, eyes wide, “Break out a wig. Where’s that cute shoulder-length pink one?”  
  
You watch her rifle around in your things, looking for it.   
  
“‘Lise– No. No! I’m not–Put the wig down.”  
  
–  
  
“I almost didn’t recognize you.”  
  
You almost don’t recognize yourself - Annalise has definitely talked you into going a little crazy. Your outfit for the Sutton party had been understated, easy - it had helped you slip into the crowd. Tonight, though - between the pink ombre wig, the short, lacy, open-back dress, and your full-face of makeup, you’re a far cry from what you look like at the office. It’s a wonder Borracho is able to pick you out of a crowd.  
  
“What threw you off?” You tease, and he chuckles. He crowds up behind you, cages you against the bar and orders for the both of you. You’re not complaining; you’re asking how long he’s been there, if he’s been there before, if he came with anyone. You kinda don’t really focus on any of the other answers, because Borracho came alone. He came alone, and he’s here alone, and he’s caging you against the bar and paying for your drink.  
  
You two talk for a little while - as much as you can over the hum of the bass - until Annalise comes and tugs you away to dance. You apologize, try to coax Borracho out with you, but he won’t go. After a while, you lose sight of him. But apparently he doesn’t lose sight of you.  
  
When Annalise finds someone to fuck, you decide to tap out for the night. You go to the bar to settle up your tab, and then there’s that hand on the small of your back again, warm and steady.  
  
“Grabbing one more?” He asks in your ear. You shake your head,  
  
“I’m gonna grab something to eat and then head home.”  
  
You hesitate before you lean back and ask, “You hungry?” 

–  
  
“I’ve lived here my whole life, I’ve never been here,” Borracho is almost wondrous as he says so through a mouthful of food. You raise a brow.  
  
“What, you know _every_ late night spot in LA?” You ask.  
  
“All the good ones, yeah.”  
  
“Apparently not,” You reach out, stealing one of his fries and popping it into your mouth.  
  
“So what’s with the wig?”  
  
You shrug.  
  
“I don’t know, it was my friend’s idea. I used to wear it all the time when I went out and then I…Stopped going out.”  
  
“Work?”  
  
“Work.”  
  
Borracho reaches across the table. You assume he’s going for your food, but he takes a few wig strands between his fingers and twirls them around before rolling them between his fingers. You sit still, as unaffected as you can possibly be with the man’s hand so damn close to your face. His hand lowers after a few moments, fingertips brushing your cheek on the way. You’re glad the wig’s on; it’s kinda covering your cheeks, maybe he won’t notice your cheeks flushing a bit.  
  
“What’s brought you out tonight?” You ask. Borracho shrugs.  
  
“Needed a night out, is all.”  
  
“Struck out, huh?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“At the club.”  
  
“What makes you say that?”  
  
“Well, you’re eating with me,” You point out.  
  
“That’s the opposite of striking out.”  
  
He’s saying it with a perfectly straight face; you know that the wig does absolutely nothing to hide your blush this time.  
  
–  
  
When you’re at work on Monday, you’ve recovered from your night out, but you’re still pretty fucking sleepy. You’ve got an obscene amount of Starbucks espresso and drip coffee in your travel mug; you’re eating a breakfast sandwich that you grabbed on the way in. Henderson and Nick have already teased you about your obvious fatigue, to which you’ve smartly replied, “Like neither of you fuckers have ever turned up looking like shit.”  
  
That had resulted in a round of hoots from the office before things had settled down.  
  
You manage to work in silence for a little bit before your phone buzzes. You don’t reach for it right away. When you pick it up, you see a text from Borracho. You glance over at him, but he’s hunched over a form. You read the text: **_Forgot that that was what your hair looked like_**

You roll your eyes, texting back: _Missing the wig?_  
  
It’s a few moments of nothing before he replies, _**Think i like this better**_  
  
_**Tho the wig was cute  
  
like your ass **_

You read those over a few times before you rest your forehead in your hand, shading your eyes from Borracho. You’re gonna need a moment to process this. When you do lower your hand, you refuse to look in Borracho’s direction, just in case he’s looking at you.  
  
_My ass is cuter than the wig._  
  
**_i’d need to see them both again, make sure_**  
  
You do look at him then, eyes wide, and he’s watching you; he’s got this smirk on his face. You shake your head a little bit, looking back down at your phone as your phone buzzes with another message: _**get a drink with me later**_  
  
Your brows raise.  
  
_I’d have to go home to get the wig._

**_i’ll make do with your ass for now_ **

‘For now’. You’re about to combust.  
  
– 

The two of you don’t go to the usual place that you hit up with the guys after work; you go somewhere out of the way, near the club that the two of you were at that weekend. You’re wondering if he lives around there, but you haven’t really found a way to bring it up yet because you two have been talking about other things – work, mostly: the guys, the pools, a case here and there.  
  
“You like it?” He asks.  
  
You consider for a moment, a finger flicking over the sagging corner of the label on your beer. You’ve been in the department for almost seven months now.  
  
“I do,” You nod after a moment, “More than I thought I would.”  
  
Borracho’s phone buzzes and you watch him pull it out of his pocket.  
  
“You been itching to get your hands dirty again?” He asks.  
  
“Maybe, why?”  
  
“Nick needs me back, I’m guessing you’re about to get a text, too.”  
  
A few seconds later, your phone buzzes and you pull it out, looking it over.  
  
“I don’t like it when you’re right,” You sigh, standing.  
  
–  
  
Maybe this is a little too dirty for you.  
  
You’re able to drive yourself home, sure, but today has been a lot.  
  
You’d gotten shot at.  
  
You work for the Sheriff’s office, sure, but you work _in the office_. The Sutton case, your in-person involvement, that was supposed to be a one-off, and that was different. Besides, Borracho had been right beside you the whole time during the Sutton case, but this?  
  
You’d wound up driving back to the office in your own car, and getting in a car with Connors, Borracho, and Henderson to head to pick up a perp. You’re using your phone, coordinating with FBI air support, tracking a GPS chip that the guys had planted on a suspect’s car a week prior. You were fine. You were loading out of the car with the guys, and then a bullet had whizzed past your side. The next thing you knew, you were on the ground; Connors was over you, asking you if you were alright. You’d nodded, stayed down when they’d told you to, moved when they’d said.  
  
Look, you’re fine.  
  
You _told_ them that you’re fine. They got the guy, you did your job, you weren’t hurt – no one was hurt. You’re fine. You’re _fine_ –  
  
You jump out of your skin when you hear a knock on your door. You take careful steps over to your door, peer through the peephole, and frown when you see who it is. You open the door and take a step back, looking up at Borracho.  
  
“What are you doing here?” You shake your head. He holds up a bag.  
  
“We didn’t finish our beer.”  
  
You hesitate before stepping back.  
  
“I’m not putting the wig on,” You warn.  
  
He comes in anyway.  
  
– 

You wind up on your couch, side by side. He’s put a football game on - you’re not paying attention; you don’t know the game well, you don’t know the teams.  
  
A car backfires outside and your head turns to the sound, your shoulders going tense. A feeling of idiocy immediately washes over you and you slouch down in your seat a bit. Borracho’s hand slides from the back of your couch to rest on the back of your neck.  
  
“It happens to all of us,” He doesn’t even bother to look away from the game as he says so.  
  
“What does?”  
  
“That,” He nods toward where the sound came from.  
  
“Does it? Cause you didn’t jump.”  
  
“Well, I been doin’ this a lot longer than you.”  
  
“…How do you handle it?”  
  
“Like this, sometimes,” Borracho holds up his beer, then uses it to gesture toward the tv.  
  
“And other times?”  
  
“Depends on the day.”  
  
You wait for him to expand on that; he doesn’t. You shift closer, leaning into him a little; his hand slides from your neck to wrap lazily around your shoulder, hand dangling over your bicep, fingertips trailing over the bottom of the sleeve of your t-shirt.  
  
You feel yourself falling asleep on him. He doesn’t shrug you off, he doesn’t push you away. He does drink your beer, though, because you refuse to move and you won’t let him up to grab another.  
  
“It’s late,” You mumble as the game ends. Borracho hums in agreement.  
  
“…I’m gonna ask something ridiculous, and I’m gonna ask you not to make fun of me,” You add.  
  
You feel Borracho glance down at you. 

–  
  
You’re curled around him when you wake up. You frown, confused for a moment, and then you remember. You feel ridiculous for asking. You can’t believe you actually asked the man to stay with you – even more, you can’t believe he _agreed_. You roll onto your back, wincing as you go. You sit up, groaning quietly as you do.  
  
“You alright?”  
  
You glance down at Borracho where he’s blinking up at you.  
  
“I know he was saving my life and all, but Connors wasn’t exactly gentle when he tackled me,” You give him a small smile. A glance down at your arms confirms it, too - your forearms are mottled purple and blue where you landed on them; you can only imagine what your knees and thighs look like, and you’re not incredibly eager to find out just what the damage is.  
  
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” You add. Borracho shrugs, and you know that that’s a yes.  
  
“Sorry,” You add, sliding back down in bed and settling against your pillows. Borracho rolls onto his side, watching you.  
  
“Thanks for staying,” You mumble.  
  
“I only stayed to snoop around while you were asleep. Couldn’t find that wig,” Borracho says. You roll your eyes, reaching out and flicking between his eyes. You’re quiet for a few moments as Borracho rests his forehead against your shoulder. You glance down at him to find his eyes closed.  
  
It was sweet of him to stay, you can at least thank him somehow, right?  
  
You look back up at the ceiling.  
  
“…I’ll buy you breakfast before we go in,” You promise. He doesn’t lift his head; you don’t even check to see if he opens his eyes.  
  
“I gotta go home and shower and shit,” He mumbles.  
  
“So we’ll meet in the parking lot of the Starbucks and I’ll throw the bag with your food from my car to your car. Easy.”  
  
He laughs and lifts his head.  
  
“I’ll bet you miss my window.”  
  
You raise a brow, looking down at him.  
  
“You’re on.”  
  
–  
  
You see him out, ‘cause it’s the polite thing to do. There’s something gnawing at your stomach, so you finally bring yourself to say it when the two of you are in the front hall.  
  
“…Don’t tell the guys about this, please,” You shake your head. You know that he knows how they get.  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
Simple, flat. Finite. The way he told Henderson on your first day that he wasn’t in to bet on your sticking around. You smile as you lean in your doorway, watching him.  
  
“Thanks, Borracho.”  
  
“Benny,” He corrects quietly.  
  
“What?”  
  
He meets your eye, repeats, “ _Benny_ ,” Then adds, “I’ll text you when I’m on my way to Starbucks.”  
  
He leaves you in your doorway, blinking, stunned, and feeling like you just unlocked a fucking level. 

–

You’re not gonna lie, you’re not really sure what you’re expecting out of Borracho’s apartment. Sparse isn’t the word for it – plain isn’t, either. Simple? Kind of unlived in. I mean, you know the guy works a lot, but jeez. You’re almost tempted to look in the fridge.  
  
Okay, that’a lie, you’re _insanely_ tempted to look in the fridge. You’re willing to bet that there’s 2 cans of beer, 1 expired bag of shredded cheese, and maybe a some pepperoni for snacking on or something.  
  
You don’t get to look, though, because you’re already being herded to the couch.  
  
It’s become a habit between the two of you. You don’t do it every day, or every week, but if a day is particularly shitty, if the guys have had a scrape during a firefight or it came just a bit too close for comfort, Borracho would come over. Sometimes he’d go out with the guys first, but he’d always come to your apartment after; the two of you took turns buying the beer. You’d put the game on– _whatever_ game was on – and you’d settle in on the couch.  
  
This time is different, though. Borracho is in a mood.  
  
You don’t know what’s gone down - you haven’t seen the guy in almost a week, he’s been coordinating with the FBI. Nick couldn’t be fuckin’ bothered - he’d put Borracho on it because he’d had it with Lobbin’ Bob, so the guy’s been out of the office, out of reach. And then today Borracho came blasting back in, radiating tension and a solid _pissed off_ energy. You’d just gotten off of your shift, and he had just muttered for you to follow him as you’d headed down to the parking lot. You followed his car back to his place, and now you really wanna look in the guy’s fridge. But Borracho’s already pressing a beer into your hand and dropping like a bag of bones onto the couch beside you. _The game’s_ on (it’s basketball this time) and Borracho takes a long swig from his beer as he stares ahead, wordless.  
  
“What happened out there?” You’re careful when you ask - you wait for the game to come back from commercial first, you’re quiet about it, you don’t look at him.  
  
It takes him a few minutes to answer - you don’t know why, maybe he’s focused on the game, maybe he really doesn’t wanna talk about it, maybe he’s just sorting it through in his own mind.  
  
“Lost the witness,” He says finally, and the way he says it tells you that when he says lost, it doesn’t mean _misplaced_ , it means the witness is fuckin’ dead. The witness that had been the key to a case that the guys had been working for months, since before you even got hired.  
  
“Shit,” You breathe, turning to look Borracho over, “Are you alright?”  
  
It takes him another few moments, and then he nods. You know it’s bullshit, but you don’t push. You turn back to the tv, frowning. This isn’t like when you were on the field for the first time - Borracho isn’t just gonna cuddle up to you, he’s not the type. And while you know the guy better now than you did a few months ago, he still finds ways to stun you. So instead of trying to guess, you ask, “What can I do?”  
  
When he lifts his arm to rest around your shoulders, you’re confused for a moment, and then you sink down into his side, and he curls you close, and presses his face into your hair. You hear him take a deep breath; you wonder if he’s still watching the game, but looking would dislodge him and you don’t wanna do that. So you settle in, wrap your arm around his middle and settle.  
  
“…Anything else?” You ask after a few minutes of silence. His soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, the sound warm in your ear; his hot breath ruffles your hair.  
  
“I’ll keep you updated, techie,” He murmurs.  
  
He doesn’t call you that often - and never around the other guys, you’ve noticed. You’ve wondered why. They’d probably latch on and start using it, too, if they heard it.  
  
The two of you have gone out a couple more times - for drinks, for dinner (it’s never gone anywhere, though not for your lack of wanting). Nights like those, you’re both chatty, teasing. You don’t limit yourselves to talking about work anymore. He knows that you’re sort of alone in LA, that your family’s back East; you know that he’s the youngest boy, that he’s got three sisters (Megan, Isobel, and Nadia) and one older brother (Gabriel), that his dad passed away when he was fifteen and his mom is still around. You know that he tries to see her every couple of weeks. You know he’s an uncle; you’ve seen the little glimmer in his eye when he talks about his nieces and nephews.  
  
Nights like these, though, neither of you push to fill the quiet. Nights like these you both let the worry, or the anger, or the hurt drain into the air and be drowned out by beer and the sound of the tv and the other person’s quiet breath.  
  
When the game’s over and the beers are drained, you take a chance and peer up at Borracho. The tension’s dropped; he just looks tired now.  
  
“…Bed?” You ask softly. He nods, mumbles, “Bed.” 

–  
  
You’re blushing a little, but the room’s dark, at least, as you crawl into bed beside him. You’d asked Borracho to shut the light off before you came out of the bathroom, and he’d conceded. You’re wearing one of his old t-shirts and your underwear – and you would’ve packed some damn pajama shorts or something if you’d known what the night was going to bring. You settle in for an uneasy night. You never did sleep well in a bed that wasn’t yours.  
  
–  
  
For a moment, you don’t know the room that you’re in, but you know the arm wrapped around your stomach, and the arm tucked under your head. You glance back at Borracho over your shoulder before you reach out to where you’d deposited your phone on the bedside table the night before. You scroll through a couple of notifications before you hear a grumble behind you. You loose a squeak as Borracho’s arm tightens around you; your phone falls out of your hand onto the bed beside you. You start to turn your head back to look at him, but then his face is pressing into the crook of your neck, his stubble and goatee and lips are rasping over your skin, and you can’t help the clench in your stomach and the throb of your clit and your helpless little whimper of, “ _Benny_.”  
  
You get an answering hum, sleepy, as he repeats the motion and brushes his cheek against your neck again. You squeeze your eyes shut, biting your lip to keep from letting out any more embarrassing sounds.  
  
“How awake are you?” You whisper.  
  
“…Enough,” Is mumbled into your skin. You smile, setting a hand on the arm that’s wrapped around you.  
  
“Did I wake you up?”  
  
“…Little bit.”  
  
“ ‘m sorry.”  
  
“Wanna make it up to me?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“Stop talking.”  
  
You roll your eyes, but you comply. You pick up your phone and you scroll on in silence, letting Borracho wake up slowly. You know he’s getting there when he begins to untangle himself from you. You hear him groan, hear one of his elbow joints crack from being straightened out all night. You glance back at him, finally, and smile a little. He doesn’t stay away for long, because he rests his forehead against the back of your neck, his hand skimming, warm and a little rough, over where his shirt has ridden up over your stomach; his voice is soft and gruff and he’s mumbling something about being hungry.  
  
“I could make something,” You offer. He’s had a long week, you don’t mind.  
  
“There’s nothing in my fridge,” He grumbles.  
  
You _knew it_.  
  
“Starbucks?” Is your next suggestion.  
  
–

The two of you take his car to the drive-thru, because what’s the point of driving separately right now? Borracho’s past teasing you about how much coffee you drink and how bad it is for you, though he does still take jabs at how overpriced it is.  
  
“This is why you live in such a small apartment,” He says as he passes you your drink. You roll your eyes.  
  
“You’re such a dick.”  
  
“You’re a coffee snob.”  
  
“A coffee snob with a cute ass.”  
  
Borracho doesn’t even try to dispute that, just grunts, and you grin, leaning back in the passenger seat and taking the bag with your breakfast sandwich next. He drives to the Hollywood Bowl Overlook; there are a handful of other cars there, but it’s quiet. He rolls down your windows and shuts the car down.  
  
“You try this one yet?” You ask as you open the bag with your breakfast sandwich.  
  
“Nu-uh.”  
  
“Wanna? Mm, hang on– It’s better with hot sauce,” You reach into the baggie and pull out the packet that it came with.  
  
“You say that about everything.”  
  
“Have I been wrong yet?”  
  
“…”  
  
“Right, so shut the fuck up,” You dribble a few dots of hot sauce on the sandwich; a couple of dots miss and land on your hand, but you’ll wipe those off in a minute. You hold the baggie and sandwich out to Borracho. He takes a gentle, steadying hold of your wrist before taking a bite out of the sandwich. He hums, and you’re going to pull your hand back, but then he’s dipping his head and sucking the hot sauce from your skin, too. You might’ve been able to hide your blush from him last night, but you can’t hide it now.  
  
Borracho flicks his tongue over your skin one more time before he lets go of your wrist and settles back in his seat.  
  
“You’re right, everything is better with hot sauce.”  
  
–  
  
On the anniversary of your being working there for a year, the guys take you out for drinks. Henderson claps you on the shoulder, teases that they didn’t think you’d even make it a week - you have to laugh, bite down a, ‘Some _of you didn’t_ ’ and chase it with the tequila shooter that Henderson bought you. Borracho leaves ahead of you that night; the guys rib him for tapping out early, and for the sake of appearances, so do you. They don’t press you to drink more than one beer, even if they’re all slamming them down - you’re driving yourself home, they know that, and they can be dicks, sure, but they’re not assholes.  
  
When you get to Borracho’s place, the door is open for you, and he’s on the couch with his own beer.  
  
“How fucked up are they?”  
  
“So fucked up,” You laugh and shake your head as you kick your shoes off before you plop down onto the couch beside him. You take the beer out of his hand and take a swig from it.  
  
“Get your own.”  
  
“Make me.”  
  
Neither of you are harsh as you say so; Borracho’s already drawing you in and you’re already curling up. You don’t even pretend to watch the game tonight. You turn your head, press your face into his neck, nudge your nose along the packed-in black ink of his tattoo. Now and again he’ll take his beer back for a drink before pressing it back into your hand.  
  
“I think I like it better that way,” He mutters after he finally drains the bottle and sets it on the coffee table, “I don’t even have to hold my drink.”  
  
“Shithead,” You laugh.  
  
Borracho’s hand lifts from its customary spot on your shoulder to smooth over your hair. You hum softly.  
  
“…I still think about that wig sometimes.”  
  
You laugh at his admission before you lean back to get a good look at him.  
  
“You miss it?” You tease. He shrugs a shoulder, eyes trailing from the top of your head to meet your eyes.  
  
“Wouldn’t say that.”  
  
“Cause you’d be embarrassed?”  
  
“Cause you’re just as sexy first thing in the morning as you are when you’re all dressed up.”  
  
…This is new.  
  
This is the most forward Borracho’s been in a long time. There’s been flirting, yeah, and there’s been cuddling up, and there was that one time he licked hot sauce off of you (and you think about the feeling of his tongue on your skin _a lot_ ). But you two have been in this grey area for so long – and now the man is looking you in the eye and calling you sexy and you’ve suddenly got this urge to hide from him because he’s seen you – because he _sees_ you.  
  
His hand drifts down to cup the back of your neck again, and then he’s drawing you up to crush your mouth against his, sweet and hot. You sigh, lifting your own hand to cup the side of his neck, paw at his collar, sweep over his cheek – you can’t keep still, because now that you can touch like this, you want to touch _everywhere_ , and you don’t know where to start. Borracho’s got a better handle on this, though, he’s keeping his head. He wraps an arm around your waist and steers you up until you’re straddling one of his thighs. 

You like this better - from here you can reach down and let your hands smooth over his shoulders and chest. He’s got a hand steadying you, on your thigh, but the other is smoothing over your lower back, occasionally dipping down to palm and squeeze your ass. You press back into it, rolling your hips and grinding down against his thigh with each pass and squeeze. He doesn’t complain when you reach down and tug his shirt up and off, but he’s doing the same with yours before you can duck back in for another kiss. You toss the shirt aside, uncaring of where it ends up before you lean down, sealing your mouth over his. He groans quietly as you nibble at his lower lip. His hand has settled on your ass now, tucked into your back pocket, and you can feel him flexing his thigh, encouraging the way you’re grinding your hips down.  
  
You break your kiss to lower your head and mouth over the tattoo on his neck. You whine against his skin, hips rolling harder, and you don’t even care that Borracho is chuckling at you right now.  
  
“You like that?” He murmurs. You reach down, palming at where he’s hardening in his jeans.  
  
“You like it, too,” You accuse before scraping your teeth over the patch of skin. His head tips back with a growl, and he turns his head to murmur, “Bed?”  
  
You nod.  
  
“Bed.”  
  
–  
  
Borracho’s a quiet guy, so it doesn’t surprise you that that extends to the bedroom– for the most part. He’s not chatty, is all. But he’s touchy, and the way he looks at you – so open, and wanting.  
  
You’ve been on your back since the two of you ditched your jeans and made it to the mattress. Your bra got discarded a while back, and he took his damn time kissing your neck and sucking and teasing your nipples. Your underwear was the next casualty.

But what gets you is the way he is between your thighs. Borracho’s not chatty, but now and again, as he’s eating your pussy, he’ll let out these little moans. The first one happens when he suckles your clit after neglecting it; your hips give a little jump at the sensation, and you gasp, and he moans. The next is when he slides a finger into you. You keen high in your throat, squeeze down on it, and he turns his head like he can hide the moan he makes in the soft skin of your thigh. The loudest one that you get from him is when you’re right about to cum – you warn him, you feel it coming on –  
  
“ _Benny_ ,” You warn, “Fuck ‘m gonna– Fuck, _fuck_!” You reach down and weave your fingers into his thick hair and _pull_ , and he lets out such a sweet sound as he sucks hot, wet kisses to your pussy and fucks his fingers into you faster. You’re falling apart seconds later; his tongue and fingers keep at their ministrations until you’re using your hands to pull him up for a kiss.  
  
He hums, pleased, as you lick into his mouth, as he pulls his fingers out of you and smears your wetness over your skin. You slide your tongue along his and massage the tips of your fingers over his scalp, soothing the sting of your tugs.  
  
“Fuck me,” You mumble, drawing your knees up to cage his hips. He groans then, and kisses over the hollow of your throat before he leans off of the bed to grab a condom for the drawer on his bedside table. You prop yourself up on one elbow and reach down, massaging him through his briefs. He chuckles shakily as you push the waistband down.  
  
“Looking for something?” He teases.  
  
“You’re an ass,” You mumble, leaning up to kiss his chest.  
  
“You’re such a sweet-talker,” Borracho drops the condom packet beside your arm before he sits up to get his briefs off. You follow, and you press a hand to his chest, keeping him upright as you lean down, taking the head of his cock into your mouth. You hear him suck in a breath; his fingers brush your hair back from your neck and face, and you turn your head, releasing the head to mouth along the side and bat your eyelashes at him. His tongue dips out of his mouth as he watches you, swiping his bottom lip, and you follow suit, flicking the tip of your tongue over his glans. He groans low in his chest; you flex your hand a little, lightly digging your nails into the muscle there, and his groan grows louder. You want more of those sounds; you want this man to fall apart for you.  
  
After a few minutes of teasing, though, he quietly sputters, “Fuck– Lay back.”  
  
You do, but not before you press a few kisses to his chest and lips first. Borracho grabs the condom he’d dropped by you. You can feel yourself practically vibrating with want; your hands are still wandering his shoulders, his chest, his sides.  
  
You still as he presses into you.  
  
He’s watching you again. He’s watching you tip your head back and bare your throat to him; he’s watching you squeeze your eyes shut and open your mouth in a moan; he’s watching you arch your back and press your hips down to take more of him.  
  
You feel yourself flutter around him as your hands anchor around his forearms. You feel Borracho sheathe himself in you completely. He curls over you and presses his face into your neck, nuzzling gently. You wrap your legs around his, urging him to move. He hums, rolls his hips slowly at first, easing you both into the feeling. And for a few minutes, that’s enough.  
  
But then,  
  
“Benny,” You mumble, pleading as sweetly as you, “Please, please.”  
  
You squeeze down around him, turn your head and bite his jaw, and you feel his hips snap like you’ve flipped a switch. And fuck, maybe you have, because Borracho’s pinning your hips and fucking you into the mattress. You run your hands up to his shoulders, gripping to him as he nails that spot inside you, and you gasp.  
  
“There! There, Benny, yes– God, ohgodohgod _Benny_ –” You’re whining as you cum again, and Borracho’s moaning your name, you can hear it. It’s low under his breath, but it’s _yours_. His curling over you again, and his hips are juddering and he’s cumming, _fuck_ , he’s cumming. He’s slotting his mouth back over yours, and lapping gently into your mouth. You slide a hand into his hair, keeping him close even as you feel his cock soften, even as your trembling thighs splay. 

–  
  
“You need to shave.”  
  
“You weren’t complaining last night.”  
  
He makes it a point to nuzzle his chin along the valley of your breasts and you roll your eyes. He looks so fucking smug, too, but damnit, he looks so good on top of you.  
  
“My mouth was a little occupied,” You retort.  
  
“Oh yeah? What with?” He’s lowering his to your skin, skimming his lips along the soft underside of your breast, then up over the curve to ghost over the nipple.  
  
“Oh… Your neck, your dick… _Your_ mouth– _Borracho_!” You gasp at the feeling of his goatee on your hardening nipple. He chuckles, mumbles, “Sorry,” And lowers his head, lapping over the nipple as penance. He gives it another lap, and a suck, and you shift under him, biting your lip. You can’t help the slight shift of your hips against where his chest is keeping your thighs spread wide apart.  
  
“You’re s-so not sorry,” You retort shakily.  
  
“Maybe I am,” Borracho argues, lifting his mouth from your breast. It doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t, but his hand is drifting between your legs to lightly thumb at your clit. You blink down at him, eyelids fluttering, hazy at the teasing pressure.  
  
“Let me show you how sorry I am, sweetness,” He adds, kissing his way down your stomach.  
  
–  
  
It’s a text you’re never supposed to see and you know it.  
  
The two of you take your damn time getting out of bed. Borracho _still_ doesn’t have food in his fridge, so you order in. He’s making coffee, so when his phone buzzes, he asks you to check it, muttering, “Food might be outside.”  
  
You reach into the pocket of the sweatpants that he’s pulled on, dropping a kiss to his shoulder on the way before you straighten up, looking down at the text.  
  
It’s a group text with guys, and it’s a message from Nick that says, ‘ _If no one claims the pool for fucking Tech by midnight, you all get your $50 back_.’  
  
You almost drop the fucking phone.  
  
“Food outside?” Borracho asks, glancing back at you. He does a double-take when he sees your face and frowns, “What?”  
  
You pass him the phone without a word before you walk away, heading back to his bedroom. You feel _gross_. Is that all that last night was? Did you just make Borracho $250?  
  
You’ve got your jeans on by the time Borracho’s in the doorway of his bedroom. He folds his arm over his chest, watches you for a second before he asks, “What are you doing?”  
  
You turn back to him, waving toward the phone that’s still in his hand.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“That was the guys being the guys.”  
  
“You never told me about _that_ bet… When did they set it?”  
  
“End’a your first week.”  
  
A year ago? You bite the inside of your cheek, looking around Borracho’s room.  
  
“…So you gonna text back, let the guys know?” You ask, steeling yourself, “Cause if you take it, half of that’s mine.”  
  
Borracho’s eyes narrow.  
  
“You think I’m in on it?”  
  
“Are you? We always split the good takes and $125 is pretty fuckin’ good, I can get a lot of Starbucks with that.”  
  
“Not with the way you order. That could get you three drinks at the most.”  
  
Borracho looks down as his phone buzzes. He holds it out to you. You hesitate before you take a couple of steps forward and take the phone from him. It’s a text from Henderson, _Borracho ain’t dropped shit on this pool he can’t be cut in for shit_

And then another text from Z, _Borracho hasn’t gotten any in like a year, whoever wins needs to buy him a hooker_ 😂  
  
The gross feeling is still there, but some of it is replaced with shame. You pass the phone back to Borracho and take a couple of steps back, sitting on the end of his bed.  
  
“…I’m sorry,” You shake your head, “It was a knee-jerk reaction and that wasn’t fair to you.”  
  
Borracho steps further into the room, sitting on the bed beside you.  
  
“I didn’t tell you about that pool ‘cause you and I weren’t close when it came up– And honestly I haven’t thought about it in a long fuckin’ time.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” You ask. His brow furrows as he looks at you.  
  
“For my dumbass assumption?” You clarify. Borracho shakes his head.  
  
“Look, I know how the guys are, I get how it came off.”  
  
“I _am_ sorry–”  
  
“I know. S’alright,” He murmurs before he leans in, kissing you softly. You relax a little bit, shaking your head. You can’t believe the guys have had that pool going for a year. The other thing you can’t believe?  
  
“You haven’t gotten laid in a _year_?” You ask after a moment, looking over at Borracho. He rolls his eyes.  
  
“I’ve been a little distracted,” He leans down and bites lightly at your shoulder. You huff and swat at his thigh.  
  
“…Damn, you guys made like eight bets on me that first week, huh,” You say after a moment, getting off of his bed, adding, “Is the food here yet?”  
  
“Yeah, it got here a couple of minutes ago– How’d you know about the other–”  
  
“Thank god, I’m starving,” You add before Boraccho can finish his question. 

–  
  
“…You’ll tell me if they make a bet like that again, right?” You mumble later, when the two of you are half asleep.  
  
“They won’t.” His hand is rubbing over your back in slow, soft circles.  
  
“But if they do–”  
  
“They _won’t_.”  
  
“How can you be so sure about that?” You push yourself up on his chest to look at him.  
  
“I know the guys, sweetness– better than you,” He cuts off your protest before you can voice it. You pout a little, and he reaches up, pinching your cheek.  
  
“It was a shitty bet they made when they barely knew you. They’re only bringing it back up ‘cause they put real money down. They won’t make another bet like this but…If they do, I will tell you.”  
  
“…Thank you,” You say after a moment, lowering your head back to chest. You rest your chin on it, watching him. His hand starts those circles again and you sigh, closing your eyes.  
  
“Tell you something,” He mumbles.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“That first night you stayed here.”  
  
“Mhm?”  
  
“In the morning, when I started lovin’ on ya and you whined out my name? Sound went right to my dick.”  
  
You laugh, sliding one of your legs over his.  
  
“Such a romantic,” You mumble.  
  


–  
  
Thing is, he is romantic, a little. You don’t realize it until the two of you have been sleeping together for a few months. It’s probably because you’re so used to the gruff exterior, the harsh edges, and the quiet evenings. But the thing is, when the two of you no longer need the pretense of a hard day to be together, once you two start going on things that can be qualified as dates and not just dinner-with-the-guy-I-wanna-fuck, you learn Borracho is the open-your-door, pull-out-your-chair type. The guy even starts buying hot sauce to keep at his apartment because when you two order in, wherever it is _never_ includes enough extra packets for you, and he can’t stand you pouting about it. And it’s a small thing, sure, you’re not gonna equate hot sauce with an engagement ring, but it seriously is the thought that counts. 

–

It’s hard not to be intimidated. You’re not even being eased into meeting his family, you’re meeting everyone at once at one of his nephew’s birthday parties.  
  
“You nervous?”

“No.”

You’re lying, but if Borracho can tell, he doesn’t call you out on it. He just squeezes your thigh where his hand has been settled on it for the majority of the car ride.  
  
“It’s gonna be fine,” He murmurs.  
  
“Maybe for you. You know them already.”  
  
He chuckles as he parks the car.  
  
“It’s gonna be fine for you, too.”  
  
“Okay. But if they all decide that they hate me, you’re gonna be straight with me about it, right?”  
  
Borracho’s hand lifts from your thigh to your chin to turn your head to look at him.  
  
“They’re gonna love you…” And for a moment it looks like he’s gonna say something else, but instead he leans in for a kiss.  
  
“I won’t leave you alone in there,” he promises.

–  
  
You’re besieged by all three of his sisters when you step inside. You lose sight of Borracho and you don’t catch sight of him until an hour later. 

“There you are, jesus,” His hand lands on your lower back, steady, solid, and you lean back into his chest once you glance back and see him behind you, “What was that?”  
  
“Your sisters waterboarded me in the basement,” You give him your most deadpan expression as his youngest sister, Nadia giggles beside you.  
  
“Stop,” She bumps your hip with hers, “We were nice! Tell Ben we were nice.”  
  
“They were _very_ nice,” You add before you lean up, pecking the corner of his lips, “Honestly.”  
  
Borracho slides his hands over your hips, drawing you closer.  
  
“Promise?” He lowers his head, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and you nod, murmuring, “Promise.”  
  
“Hey,” Nadia draws your attention, pulling her phone out of her pocket, “Look over here.”  
  
You hear Borracho groan and grumble, “ _Nadia_ –”  
  
But she sticks her lower lip out, and you smile, knowing that Borracho’s a softy when it comes to his sisters. He mutters, “Fine,” and tightens his grip on your hips. At the last second, he swoops in and pecks your cheek, and you laugh so hard that you hinge forward over his arms. He leans with you before he draws you against his chest, and for a few minutes, neither of you can tell Nadia why you’re laughing.  
  
–  
  
“Did you have fun?”  
  
His tone is carefully casual, but you can hear that he’s a little guarded about it. You smile, walking over to where he’s already sitting in bed.  
  
“Yes,” You say, climbing into bed and straddling his thighs. He tips his head back against the headboard as his hands smooth over your thighs, “Does your family hate me?”  
  
“No,” Borracho shakes his head.  
  
“Swear?”  
  
“I swear, sweetness.”  
  
His phone buzzes on his nightstand, and he reaches out for it, picking it up and chuckling.  
  
“Look,” Borracho urges, turning the device to show you. It’s the picture of the two of you that Nadia took. You smile, shaking your head a little bit.  
  
“What?” He asks. You glance up at him.  
  
“I just… Hang on,” You get up and run to grab yours from where you’d left it on his dresser.  
  
“You asked me a long time ago if I still had any pictures left from that party we went to? Sutton’s?” You climb back into his lap as you remind him.  
  
“…Yeah?” His brow is furrowed, and he’s watching you scroll through a year’s worth of crap. You find the picture. It’s nearly identical to the picture that Nadia took. You turn the phone to show Borracho. He looks at it for a few moments before he takes the phone from you and stares down at it, brow furrowing.  
  
“…You said you didn’t have ‘em anymore.”  
  
He’s quiet as he says it, and he’s staring down at the picture with laser focus. Your stomach is twisting suddenly with _oh fuck oh fuck did I fuck up?_ , and you shrug.  
  
“I…I only have that one. I deleted the other two, but that one was cute, and I didn’t tell you, cause I thought you’d think it was weird that I only kept that one,” You admit, keeping your eyes safely on the phone, “And– And you’d texted me asking at like 2 in the _morning_ , I don’t know, I panicked? And then I kept thinking about telling you but it kept getting further and further away from when you’d asked and I thought you’d think it was _weird_ –”  
  
He’s laughing. You only manage to stop talking because Borracho is laughing, a deep, soft sound, and his shoulders are shaking with it, and he’s looking up at you.  
  
“You thought I’d find this weird?” He repeats, “I was the one that texted _you_ about them and you thought–”  
  
“It was 2 in the morning!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. Borracho surges up and wraps his arms around your middle before you can topple back and off balance. He presses his lips to yours gently, still chuckling, even as you’re settling against his chest and wrapping your arms around his shoulders.  
  
“God, I love you, sweetness,” He murmurs, and you melt.  
  
“I love you, too, Benny,” You mumble, relieved and elated and blushing.

–  
  
A month later, when the guys find out that the two of you are officially together, Connors yells, “Pay up!” And the rest of the guys groan and pull out their wallets. 


	2. The Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pools haven’t stopped, but now Borracho’s involved, too.

The dynamic in the office doesn’t change. I mean, sure, the guys know that you and Borracho are together, but you expected to take way more teasing about it. If they get on Borracho’s case about you when you’re not around, he doesn’t tell you. But when you’re at work, you’re _at work_. The two of you aren’t affectionate there, you don’t make it a point to take your breaks at the same time or grab lunch together. Things are as they were.   
  
Where the teasing does creep in is when you all have downtime - when you’re grabbing a drink as a team.   
  
The pools haven’t stopped, either, but now Borracho’s involved, too. Henderson’ll bate him with, “Nah, but I bet Borracho doesn’t even know his girl’s birthday,” (He does). Connors’ll tack on, “A pitcher says Tech can’t tell us where he got his nickname from,” (You can). And Zapata? “Tech’s favorite topping, for all the marbles?” (It’s hot sauce, but you bat your eyes and coo, “ _Borracho_ ,” and the guys groan and make gagging noises as Borracho throws his head back and laughs). 

“Man, tell your girlfriend to behave herself,” Henderson scoffs.  
  
They say shit like that a lot. It irks you, and Borracho knows that. If he were anyone else he might lean into it, but he doesn’t.   
  
“She’s got herself handled, Henderson,” Is his answer that time.   
  
Another, when you’re kicking Connors’ ass at pool, Connors looks to Borracho as he comes over and says, “Dude, tell your girlfriend that hustling people is fuckin’ rude.”   
  
“He’s just being a sore loser,” You justify to Borracho, even as you stare Connors down. Borracho’s hand settles on your lower back and he leans in, pecking your cheek and murmuring, “Fuck it up, sweetheart.” 

–

The Magalons aren’t like your family. You grew up in a much more formal household - you only saw aunts and uncles once every couple of months, and you knew at least a week in advance that you’d be going by, or that they’d be coming over. 

But the Magalons? They have an open door policy that astounds you. And once you and Borracho are dating, it extends to you, too - his mother and sisters make sure that you know it, tell you that you can drop by any time, with or without Borracho. The prospect is daunting at first. You don’t want to offend them, but you just don’t… Quite know how to _do_ that. Borracho is gentle as he waves off your worry.

“They like you, sweetness. They just wanna get to know you a bit better, is all,” He murmurs, “Stopping by doesn’t have to be a big thing, stay for a cup of coffee and then say you have to run errands– but don’t stress yourself out about it.”

His thumb smooths over the wrinkle in your brow before he leans down and pecks your lips. 

You try not to let it stress you out, really. That first visit to his mom’s house is a little awkward for all of you - Isobel and Nadia are there with their kids, and you still don’t know one another very well - but you’re trying, and by the end of it, you get a hug from them. One of Isobel’s daughters even asks you when you’re coming back. You don’t have to mention it to Borracho when you see him. Apparently your drop-in made the family group chat - there’s a picture of you having a tea party with two of his nieces. 

“Maybe I should get you your own tiara and tutu,” He teases, and you roll your eyes. 

It isn’t always that smooth, of course. Sometimes you have plans to go over and see them and you get called into work on short notice. You feel awful when that happens, but they understand - they’ve been dealing with it with Borracho for years.

They don’t mind you being touchy with him, either. That throws you. You’re touchy with Borracho when it’s just the two of you alone at one of your apartments, but when you’re around the family, at first, you just a little skittish when Borracho starts getting affectionate. Your family was like that, too - just, very concerned with propriety and appearances around everyone else. Borracho tells you that no one cares, tries to coax you into giving him more than just a peck when the two of you are able to spend an afternoon with his family. It’s Megan, Borracho’s oldest sister, that finally kinda convinces you that it’s fine. It’s not anything she says, it’s just the way that she is - you see her cozying up with her new boyfriend, and it warms you.   
  
You relax after that, slowly. Giving Borracho a few kisses, teasingly slapping his ass when you pass him in the kitchen. It’s not _salacious_ , it’s just… Comfortable. You’re not even offended when Isobel tells you later that she’s glad you’ve finally ‘chilled out’, cause you kinda have. Later, when you’re sitting on Borracho’s knee and leaning against his chest, he turns his head and noses along your neck, and murmurs, “You know I love you, right?”   
  
You look down at him as he leans away and you nod, brow furrowing a little.   
  
“Of course I know,” You say quietly, “I love you, too.”   
  
He nods, murmurs, “I know,” And smiles up at you. He leans up for a kiss, and instead of tensing up and leaning away like you might’ve a few weeks ago, you give it to him, and then another, and then another.   
  
–   
  
You don’t talk about marriage at first - it just hasn’t come up. You know that he married his high school sweetheart, but they were only together a couple of years before they divorced (all of the guys on the team have been married and divorced at least once). His sister Nadia tells you, too (“Just in case – Look I love my brother and all, but sometimes guys don’t tell you everything they’re supposed to, you know?”). And you appreciate that, of course, but you’re not worried about it. The two of you are fine the way you are. 

It’s Borracho that brings it up. Megan gets engaged to her boyfriend - _fast_ , I’m talking six months in. You’re happy for them, though. Sure, it seems a little rushed to you, but who are you to judge, and they seem really happy. The night after the engagement party, as the two of you lay in bed, Borracho murmurs, “You ever think about it?”   
  
“What?”   
  
You’re half-asleep; the last thing the two of you were talking about was whether or not Connors wears a baseball cap all the time ‘cause he’s getting a bald spot.   
  
Borracho doesn’t say it. He takes hold of your left hand and lightly runs his thumb over your ring finger. You tip your head up to blink blearily at him in the dark. You don’t need to ask where the question’s come from, but it’s just caught you so off guard.   
  
“… I’ve thought about it,” You’re afraid to say it too loudly, in case he’s putting you on. He intertwines his fingers with yours and squeezes your hand gently.   
  
“What have you thought?”   
  
You shrug.   
  
“I don’t know… Just the– The idea of it, I guess.”   
  
“To me?”   
  
“No, to Henderson– _Yes,_ to you.”   
  
“Thank god you clarified, I was afraid I was gonna be stuck in line behind Henderson.”   
  
You flick Borracho’s chest before resting your head back down on his shoulder.   
  
“We’d never last. He wouldn’t buy me the right kind of hot sauce.”   
  
“That’s the only reason?” Borracho laughs.   
  
“Well, I’m also kinda in love with you. It would put a damper on the marriage.”   
  
“I’d make a great second husband.”

“You’d make a great first one.”   
  
The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, and even though the two of you have been teasing, you’re worried Borracho’s going to really laugh at you. He doesn’t, though. He _won’t_ \- you’re too dear to him and he’s too _good_ , he wouldn’t do this to you as a joke.   
  
“I didn’t the first time around,” He admits, “We were young and I was pretty stupid.”   
  
You’re surprised he’s talking about it. So far the conversations around his ex-wife have just been that he has one. You’re quiet as Borracho tells you about her, about them; you’re not jealous, you’re comforted, actually. He’s trusting you with this.   
  
“…Have you ever wanted to marry anyone you’ve been with?” He asks after he’s gone quiet about her. You shake your head a little bit. He perks up at that, and you can practically hear how his brows have risen as he presses, “Really?”   
  
“Why’s that so surprising?”   
  
“What changed?”   
  
You’re quiet for a few moments, looking down through the dim light of the room at where your hands are still intertwined.   
  
“I couldn’t see a future with them.”   
  
And then his hand is cupping the back of your neck to tip your head up, and his lips are sliding over yours in what you’re sure is the softest kiss this man has ever given you. He lifts your joined hands to rest over his heart, and you ache with loving him.   
  
–  
  
“You need to come get your man.”   
  
Well that’s a new one.   
  
You’ve had the day off, and you knew that the guys were going to grab drinks after their shift, but you didn’t expect a call like this from Henderson.   
  
“Big night?” You ask dryly. Borracho grunts, taking one long, final drag from his cigarette as he gets into the passenger seat of your car.   
  
“Big night,” He mumbles, flicking the cigarette out of the window, adding, “Sorry.”   
  
“It’s okay, baby,” You chuckle as he does up his seat belt. He leans over for a kiss, sliding a hand between your thighs. You smile into it.  
  
“Someone’s in a mood,” You tease.   
  
“I’m always in a mood when it comes to you,” He mumbles, kissing your neck. You huff, squeezing your thighs shut to stop his hand from moving.   
  
“Wait ‘til we get home, baby.”   
  
“Do we have to?”   
  
“I’m not getting pulled over because you’re horned up.”   
  
“No fun,” Borracho grumbles, settling back in his seat and tipping his head back against the headrest. 

–

“Big night?” You tease as Borracho crowds up behind you at your kitchen counter. His arms loop around your waist and he presses his face into your neck.

“Stop yelling at me,” He mumbles. You giggle, unable to help it.

“Wow, someone really did it up, huh.”

He hums.

“Coffee? Or I’ve got room-temperature gatorade and white rice.”

“God I love you.”

–

You don’t find out just how big of a night out Borracho had until about two hours later, when his phone buzzes. The two of you have been settled on the couch with the tv volume turned _way_ down, zoning out to Breaking Bad reruns. He reads the text, and he groans.

“What is it?” You ask.

“…You’re gonna find out, anyway,” He mumbles and passes you his phone. It’s a text from Nick, _Checked public records - no wedding certificate for Borracho and Tech. Henderson and Connors, pay up._

Your brow furrows, and you hand the phone back.

“Explain?”

“I may’ve had a… slip of the tongue last night.”

He’s suddenly very interested in the tv. You’re stunned for a few seconds.

“We were talking about that stuff the other night, it was on my mind… I was drinking…” He adds.

“And they thought we’d eloped and neglected to tell them?”

“And put money on it.”

“Classic,” You sigh, leaning back against the couch cushions.

“…Would you want to elope?” He doesn’t look at you as he asks.

“Your sisters would kill us.”

“True.”

The two of you watch tv for a few more minutes in silence.

“Did you realize, or–”

Borracho shakes his head, “Henderson caught it.”

“So do I have to ask Henderson for what you said?”

“I _said_ , ‘shit, it’s getting late, I should text my wife’.”

You’re grinning, and you think you feel a little lightheaded, but in the good way.

“You switched to water after that, huh,” You tease.

“Bet your cute ass I did.” 


	3. The Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re not ignorant to the fact that what the guys do day in and day out is dangerous.

Your world doesn’t stop when it happens. 

It feels like it should, but it can’t. You’ve still got shit to do, the rest of an op to help coordinate, even as your insides are squirming and you think you’re going to be sick.  
  
You’re not ignorant to the fact that what the guys do day in and day out is dangerous. You worry about all of them, you always tell all of them to be careful. 

But that doesn’t matter now, you can’t really dwell on what you have said or what you should’ve said, because you can still hear the odd gunshot coming through your feed and god, what the _fuck_ is going on over there? You can hear Nick telling one of the guys to stay still and Henderson to keep applying pressure.  
  
And then Nick is telling you to call in a medic because Borracho has been shot.

\--

When you do get to the hospital, the team’s all there. You don’t have to ask; Nick is up and telling you: “He’s in surgery right now. Bullet hit him in the abdomen,” Nick pats the spot on his own torso, on the left, just under his ribs in an approximation, “Doc says he got lucky, it didn’t hit anything vital.”

“It went through his tac vest?” You hiss. 

“We were one short, he gave his to the witness,” Connors grumbles. 

Stupid bastard. Stupid noble bastard. When you see him, you’re gonna kill him. 

You want to ask more, but you hear your name being called. You turn to see Gabriel, Megan, and Borracho’s mom, Regina, coming down the hall. They need answers; you can ask your questions later.  
  
\--

You don’t register much after the doctor says, “ _he’s going to be alright_ ,” because that tiny bit of you that’s been ready to kill him this whole time just crumbles. Cause yeah, you’re still out in the waiting room, and you’re still worried, but Borracho was doing his _job_ , and you may or may not already be planning to buy him his own tac vest for Christmas. Maybe L.L. Bean has them and you can get it personalized?  
  
“Can we see him?”  
  
It’s Gabriel that asks it; you haven’t even bothered, for the simple reason of the doctor’s answering question of, “Are you family?”  
  
_They_ are. You’re not. _They’re_ allowed in; Gabriel is already starting down the hall to his brother’s room. Regina and Megan turn back to you, apologies poised on their lips, and you wave them off with a thin smile and tell them that it’s alright, that you’ll see him later, that he needs his family right now. Megan wraps her an arm around her mom’s shoulders and gives you a thankful nod before following Gabriel.  
  
You’re alone for a split-second. It’s quiet, save for the hum of the vending machine next to you, and the buzz-crackle-mumbling of someone being called to the O.R. on the hospital’s intercom overhead.  
  
Then Nick’s hand is on your shoulder, and he’s telling you that one of them will drive you home. You shake your head, tell him that you can get yourself back.  
  
“How’d you get here?” Nick asks.  
  
“I… I um…” You drove. You drove, but you barely remember doing it.  
  
The guys are watching you, all of them. They’re waiting for the tears. But you’re not going to do that here; besides, they’re just as worried about Borracho as you are. You want to be there for them just as much as they want to be there for you.  
  
You can fall apart later.  
  
\--  
  
Visiting hours are over before the doctor lets anyone but Borracho’s family in to see him, so you and the guys decide to clear out (well, the guys decide to clear out, you know that you’ve gotta go with one of ‘em). Megan does come out to tell you all that he’s stable, and sleeping, that the doctors expect him to only be in for a few days before he’ll be able to come home, barring infection or complications. She promises to text you with updates; you tell her to call if she or the family needs anything - food, clothing, a babysitter - _anything_. She gives you a tight hug, and when you lean away, a few tears have leaked from her eyes. You reach up and carefully smooth them away, giving her a small smile.  
  
“He’s gonna be alright,” You remind her.  
  
“He’s gonna be alright,” She repeats back to you, because you both need to be told.  
  
\--  
  
The ride home is silent. You’re in the passenger seat of your car as Nick drives; Henderson, Zapata and Connors are following in the car that they all rode over in. You’re staring down the dashboard like you could melt it. When Nick pulls up in front of your place, you mumble your thanks.  
  
You both get out. Nick doesn’t toss you your keys like he would on another day. He walks around the car, puts them in your hand, claps you on the shoulder and tells you to get some rest. Before he can get in the car with the others, you call out to him.  
  
“You get the fucker that did it?” You ask. He nods. You nod in turn before you go inside.  
  
That’s been weighing on you. You’ve hadn’t been able to ask at the hospital; you’ve been worried about someone coming back to snag Borracho, maybe finish the job, but if Nick says they’re gone, that means they’re _gone_.  
  
You shut the door behind yourself and look around. Your apartment feels off -- _weird_. Like someone snuck in and moved everything two inches to the left. It’s a few moments of quiet before you realize how tired your body feels, how hollow. You drag yourself into the bedroom, barely kick off your shoes before you fall onto the bed. You need to rest now. You can fall apart later.  
  
\--  
  
Henderson seems stunned to see you when you come into the office the next day. He glances at Connors, then Zapata.  
  
“If I see money change hands, I’m gonna slap all three of you,” You warn as you lower yourself into your desk chair. The guys turn back to their work. Nick comes over to your desk a few minutes later.  
  
“You sleep?” He asks first. You nod.  
  
“You see him?” He asks next.  
  
You haven’t. He’s still resting; his family has been taking shifts at the hospital, and you wanna be there, you do, but they told you that they’ve got it under control. And fuck, you wanna argue, but you don’t wanna push back on this, not right now, not with them.  
  
“He’s in good hands,” Is your answer.  
  
“... If you wanna take a day…” Nick almost looks pained as he offers it. You glance up at him.  
  
“We still have work to do?” You ask.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Are you all takin’ a day?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Alright then.”  
  
You put your headphones in, and you turn your music up, and you fight the urge to look at the little post-it notes you keep in the front of your notebook.  
  
\--  
  
“Hey, sweetness.”  
  
If your eyes had been closed, you almost could’ve almost trick yourself into thinking everything’s normal, the way he mumbles it -- it’s the way he mumbles it when you wake him up in the morning. But you don’t have the beeping of a heart monitor and the harsh bright of overhead lights to contend with in your bedroom. 

Regina had warned you that he’s still hopped up on pain meds and pretty tired. And it’s only been three days, and you know that he lost a lot of blood, but _damnit_ , Borracho looks small and sallow in that hospital bed.  
  
“Hey there,” You speak softly as you pull a chair up beside his bed. You're sitting on the right side of him; the chair one on the left is piled high with his mom’s purse and her coat, and one of the niece’s diaper bags. You take his hand in both of yours, a gentle grip, like he’s gonna turn to dust in front of you if you clasp too tight. You haven’t seen him in three days but it’s felt like a fucking year.  
  
“How are you feelin’?” You ask.  
  
He chuckles, mumbles, “Like I got shot,” And you push out a laugh and give him a smile, because that’s what he needs right now. You can tell him that you hated hearing him say it later.  
  
\--  
  
“This is payback for when I got that concussion, isn’t it,” Connors grumbles as he grabs his jacket, heading out for the third time that day. Borracho’s on the last day of his first week of desk duty. He’s been home for just as long.  
  
“How else are you gonna learn, Connors?” Is Borracho’s answer, and the guys crack up. They laugh, because they’re coping by making light of this, because this wasn’t the first incident, and it won’t be the last. Those are just the facts. And they _can_ make light of this, because Borracho’s in one piece.  
  
You can’t, though. You haven’t worn your headphones in the office so much since those first few months at the department. The guys don’t question it; Nick doesn’t push you to interact like he did last time. They just let you at your work.  
  
Look, you’re fine. Things are fine. Borracho’s back to being home with you, sleeping in your bed. His stitches have been taken out, they say he’s healing up well. He’s fine.  
  
You’re fine.  
  
\--  
  
“I’ve got it.”  
  
You can’t count how many times you’ve said that since he got out of the hospital.  
  
Listen, you’re not babying him, it’s just -- well at first, he still had residual pain. And you don’t mind grabbing things for him, you really don’t. So if he was hungry, you’d grab him food, or if he wanted more coffee, you’d get up and get him some.  
  
Problem is it’s been about three weeks now and you’re still saying, “ _I’ve got it._ ”  
  
You can see that it’s starting to wear on him a little bit, but it’s automatic now, you can’t bring yourself to stop trying to help - even when he hasn’t asked you for it. So when you see him reach for something in the cabinet, and he winces just a little at the stretch, you hurry over, and bat his hand away with a mumble of, “I’ve got it.”  
  
“Cut it out,” He chuckles.  
  
You freeze with your hand wrapped around a box of graham crackers, and turn your head to blink at him.  
  
“...I can get things for myself, sweetness,” He adds, softer, “‘Sides, I’ve gotta get used to moving around again. Just lemme grab ‘em. Okay?”  
  
You let go of the box and nod, and he pecks your lips before you can step away. You settle back down on the couch, your stomach twisting, your emotions a mottle of uselessness and idiocy. Borracho sits down next to you a few minutes later, slings his arm around your shoulder. You take a nibble of the graham cracker when he holds a piece in front of your mouth. You don’t lean into his side - it’s his _left_ side. You’re sure the spot is still tender, you don’t want to aggravate it, even when Borracho’s arm tightens around you and he tries to coax you closer.  
  
\--  
  
You blink at the light as it’s flipped on. You’re frowning - for a couple of reasons. The first is that the room that was _just_ dark is now bright as hell. The second is that Borracho is also frowning - at you.  
  
“What’s going on?” He asks quietly.  
  
“What are you talking about?” You shake your head.  
  
He tips his head to the side, eyes narrowing.  
  
“Come on, you know I know you better than that.”  
  
You’d taken your time coming to bed. Borracho had gone in ahead of you, but you’d stayed on the couch, zoning out to some television show you really didn’t care about. He’d been touchy all night - hands skimming over your thigh, your arm, your side; kissing your cheek, your neck. You’d pecked his lips a couple of times, but you hadn’t reciprocated otherwise.  
  
Thing is, it’s not just tonight.  
  
You’ve barely touched Borracho since he’s been home.  
  
You don’t know what it _is_. It’s not that you don’t want him, you do, you always do, but you just…  
  
“You can turn the light back off,” You turn back to the dresser and grab your pajama bottoms, “You should be sleeping.” You cringe when you hear the thud of Borracho’s feet on the floor of your bedroom, and then he’s touching your shoulder and carefully turning you to face him.  
  
“What’s going on?” He presses, “Sweetness, I’m sorry if I seemed harsh in the kitchen earlier--”  
  
“It’s not that,” You shake your head.  
  
“Then what?” He’s looking over your face, “You’ve been acting like I’m about to disappear--”  
  
“You scared the _shit_ out of me!”  
  
And then you slap your hand over your mouth because _fuck_. You yelled, and you’d told yourself that you weren’t going to do this. What happened wasn’t his _fault_ \- it wasn’t his fault that they didn’t have enough tac vests. He took the initiative to protect their witness. You tell yourself that every time you see that damn scar, every time you see him wince.  
  
You shake your head, lowering your eyes from his stunned face. Your eyes are watering and you need to move. You make to step around him, but Borracho gets in your way, and hooks an arm around your middle and hurries to say, “Don’t, hey-- talk to me--”  
  
You’re still shaking your head, but you can’t stop the tears now, so Borracho gathers you into his chest as you fall apart against him. Neither of you speak; you can’t, couldn’t even if you tried. He just wraps his arms around you and keeps all of your shattering pieces together.  
  
You couldn’t do this before. You felt like you didn’t have permission. The guys needed you to do your job, and then his family had needed you to keep your head, and then-- and then he was out of the hospital and home with you and what was the point of crying about it?  
  
You’ve been walking around with panic and pain and worry for a _month_ and the dam has finally fuckin’ broken.  
  
When you’ve calmed down a little bit, the two of you crawl into bed. Borracho shuts the light back off. He takes one of your hands and slips it over his side and gently presses it to the puckered skin of the scar. It brings a fresh wave of tears, and you turn your head and press your face into the pillow to hide from him.  
  
“I’m sorry, sweetness,” He mumbles, letting you lift your hand away from the scar to rest on his chest, where you can feel his heart beating steadily. You know he isn’t doing it on purpose; you know he’s trying to help, to show you that he’s healing and that he’s alright, but he doesn’t quite know how to. You’re not sure how to make this better, either.  
  
“Can you stay home tomorrow?”  
  
He whispers the question when you’re half asleep. You sniffle and nod a little bit, and press your face into his neck. You shyly let your hand slide back down to the scar. Your fingers smooth over the raised skin before you settle your palm over it.  
  
\--  
  
Borracho lowers himself onto the couch beside you, tucking you against his right side as you cradle your mug of coffee.  
  
The morning’s been slow. Borracho’s been moving around you like you’re a skittish little thing. You’ve been staying out of his way in the kitchen and the living room and the hall, letting him do things for himself and shaking this urge to be his shadow.  
  
“Megan said she didn’t understand how you were so calm the whole time.”  
  
“...Well, unfortunately, now you know,” You grumble, looking down into your mug. You’re still embarrassed for yelling; you’ve apologized three times now. Borracho’s hand runs up and down your shoulder. He’s patient, quiet. You finally manage,  
  
“I’ve never… Been with anyone that puts themselves in danger like this every day. When it happened, I was in work mode, and then when I got to the hospital, I was just...I don’t know, I was trying to find ways to fix it, cause… Cause when it happened, I wasn’t anywhere near you, I couldn’t do anything. And then I couldn’t _see_ you at the hospital, since I wasn’t family,” You feel Borracho tense up beside you, but he doesn’t stop you, “But I could run errands for your mom, or look after your sisters’ kids, or grab Isobel coffee, something. That helped. It was distracting. And then we were back in the office and you guys kept joking about it, and-- and I know, I get it, you guys have to sometimes, but I just _couldn_ ’t.”  
  
You shut up, biting down on your lips as you feel tears springing up again. You don’t know how; you could’ve sworn you’d cried everything out last night. Borracho doesn’t interrupt you still, just squeezes your shoulder encouragingly.  
  
“I’m sorry I babied you so much when you got home,” You add once you’re sure you’ve pushed the tears away, “I know this isn’t the first time you’ve had something like this happen. I was trying to fix that, too.”  
  
“You weren’t babying me...At first.”  
  
He’s teasing you now, and you’re smiling a little despite yourself. Borracho presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, “There’s my girl.”  
  
“And I’m sorry for yelling.”  
  
“I know, sweetness.”  
  
“But I will probably yell again if you ever do a dumbass thing like removing your tac vest again.”  
  
“Understood.”  
  
“And the guys. They will not escape my wrath, either.”  
  
“Your _wrath_?”  
  
“My wrath.” 


	4. The Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s seen you interacting with his nieces and nephews before, but something about this…Different.

He starts thinking about it when he sees you in the kitchen with his sister and his mom. He’s late getting there - you went ahead to his family’s barbecue without him. But when he gets there, after he’s spent some time in the backyard with Gabriel and finally comes looking for you, he sees you in the kitchen, and Borracho just… stills.  
  
You’ve got a baby strapped to your chest.  
  
Borracho’s seen you interacting with his nieces and nephews before, but something about this...Different. It’s Nadia’s youngest, his newest niece, Lissie. You’re swaying from foot to foot, rubbing a gentle hand over the baby’s back, and chatting with his mom. Now and again you’ll glance down at Lissie, coo over her, tickle one of her dangling feet, smile as she reaches up and grabs at your earring. You’ll gently pry her questing fingers off of it to grip one of your fingers instead without missing a beat, without breaking eye contact with his mom or missing a word that Regina says.  
  
He’s able to watch for a few more minutes before Nadia spots him and calls him out. He comes into the kitchen as if he hasn’t been there the entire time, greets his mom and Nadia and answers their questions about work. When they’re distracted by something bubbling on the stove, he crowds against your side, presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, “Hey, sweetness.”  
  
\--  
  
Nothing seems off to you just then.  
  
It’s later.  
  
It’s one thing for Borracho to be quiet around the guys at work, but it’s another for him to get so quiet around his family. They notice it, too. Megan pulls you aside to ask you if something’s wrong between the two of you, but you tell her that you have been alright, you don’t know what’s up. You really don’t.  
  
You wait until you’re home to ask. You’re already dressed for bed, and sitting up against the headboard. You watch him for a few moments.  
  
“Babe?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“You alright?”  
  
He looks back at you, frowning.  
  
“Yeah, why?”  
  
“Well, you hardly said anything all night. Did something happen with the guys, or…?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“...So…?”  
  
“Nothing’s wrong.”  
  
He gives you a smile and pecks your lips before heading into the bathroom.  
  
\--  
  
He doesn’t tell you, so you don’t push. But sometimes you feel Borracho watching you when you’re at work. It’s usually when you’re focused - you know the weight of his stare by now, the steady feeling of it. When it happens, when you manage to pull yourself away from whatever you’re focused on, and you look over at Borracho, he’s always looking at something else - his screen, or a form, or his legal pad.  
  
But he does it when you’re at home, too. When you’re cooking, when you’re watching television, when you’re loading the dishwasher. And you don’t snap, you just…Call him out. You’ve been neatening up after lunch, and you feel that stare again. It’s been two _weeks_ of this, so you turn to Borracho and you ask, “What is it?”  
  
He looks stunned to be caught out. He blinks twice before he answers, “We need to go grocery shopping,” And turns back to the tv, and fuck if that isn’t the lamest goddamn excuse you’ve ever heard.  
  
“Benny,” You lean against the kitchen counter, watching him, “Look, I’m not-- Really not trying to be dramatic here, but you’re freaking me out a little bit, babe. You’ve been all...I don’t even know _what_ for, like, weeks now.”  
  
You bite your lip as Borracho lowers his eyes and hangs his head a little. Your stomach is twisting with _bad_ , and _wrong_ , and _it’s over_. Your first thought is that it’s lingering resentment from when you’d yelled about him getting hurt. That was nearly four months ago now, but maybe you were wrong, maybe it’s weighed on him and he hasn’t told you. You fold your arms over your chest, preemptively defensive as you tack on, “You know that whatever it is, I can handle it, I just… We agreed to be straightforward with one another.”  
  
Borracho doesn’t say anything for a few moments. When he speaks, he starts with, “I been thinkin’ about...Us...”  
  
And now you’re really, really panicking. You’re quiet, careful, steeling yourself, and you nod for Borracho to keep going, and you wait.  
  
“...Do you want kids?” Is what he says next, and it takes you so long to answer that he actually looks up at you.  
  
“I… What?”  
  
“ _Kids_ , sweetness.”  
  
“That’s what you’ve been thinking about?” You ask.  
  
Borracho pushes himself off of the couch and strolls into the kitchen.  
  
“Came to mind-- we outta hot sauce? I can run to the store tonight--” How in the hell is this man actually thinking about groceries?   
  
“Wait, wait wait wait,” You turn, reaching out and catching hold of Borracho’s shoulder. He turns to face you, frowning.  
  
“What’s wrong?” He asks.  
  
“ _That’s_ what you’ve been thinking about?” You repeat. Borracho shrugs, mutters, “Yeah.”  
  
“Where’d this come from?”  
  
“Saw you with Lissie.”  
  
“And it got you thinking?”  
  
Borracho nods.  
  
“For _weeks_?”  
  
He nods again, and before he can turn back to check the cabinet for how much hot sauce you have left, you see a hint of color in his cheeks. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him embarrassed. You smile, crowding up behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me when you started thinking about it?” You ask, resting your chin on his shoulder. Borracho grunts, continues to rifle through the cabinet.  
  
“Benny,” You press quietly. You hear him sigh before he turns in your arms, looking down at you.  
  
“ _Do_ you want kids?” He dodges your question again, and you sigh, lowering your eyes to his chest.  
  
“I… Used to.”  
  
“Used to?”  
  
“I haven’t ruled them out or anything, but I also--... I don’t know, they’re not a priority for me,” You lift your eyes to his, nervous now, “Are they a dealbreaker for you?”  
  
Borracho doesn’t answer right away. Instead he focuses on fitting his hands over your hips and dipping his thumbs under the hem of your shirt, like he can find some answer or some comfort there.  
  
“I don’t know,” He shakes his head; it’s quiet, and honest. You kinda get it. He comes from a big family; he’s the only sibling that doesn’t have kids. And you’d be lying if you said you haven’t thought about having them -- with him. His family’s about as un-subtle as the guys, teasing when you’re helping with their kids, asking when you and Borracho are expecting, what your plans are. It’s been worse since the two of you moved in together.  
  
“Okay,” You slide your hands up to Borracho’s shoulders, rubbing them gently, “We don’t have to discuss all of this right now, but… Please don’t hide this stuff from me, babe.”  
  
“I won’t,” Borracho mumbles. You’re not sure you believe him, but you let it go this time, and you lean up and kiss him gently.  
  
“I’ll go with you to the store, I’ve got a coupon.”  
  
“You’re couponing?” Borracho asks, brows raising.  
  
“...Selectively.”  
  
“You’ve got a problem, sweetness.”  
  
“I know, I’m going to my first Seasoners Anonymous meeting tomorrow.”  
  
\--  
  
You guys don’t talk about it again for a while. You don’t have much reason to think about it - until Borracho gets a text from Nadia asking if the two of you can look after Lissie for the weekend (Regina’s looking after Nadia’s two other children, but Regina is getting older, and two hyperactive toddlers plus a four month old would be a bit much for her). When Borracho mentions it to you, you can see some hesitance in him. You shrug, tell him that you’re more than happy to help and leave it up to him.  
  
You get a text from Nadia a few minutes later that says, _Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you_ , and you glance over at Borracho, smiling.  
  
\--  
  
Borracho’s not nervous; he helped look after Nadia when she was a baby, he’s helped with his nieces and nephews when he’s been able to. You’re a little worried. This isn’t just about helping Nadia out, it’s proving to the family and Borracho and yourself that you can assist in the care of a Small Human.  
  
It’s one thing to help with the baby at a family gathering - there are always at least five extra pairs of hands on deck to pass Lissie off to. It’s gonna be another to be caring for her between the two of you.  
  
Neither of you say it, but you both kinda know that the other is thinking the same thing: _This is kind of a dry run_.  
  
\--  
  
Your baby voice is embarrassing and you’re honestly not even sure where it came from. You haven’t even used it with Lissie before -- but Borracho’s run out to grab a few things for you two for breakfast, and you’re playing peek-a-boo with the baby and thank god he’s not still here because your voice seems to have gone up half an octave. Lissie seems to be enjoying it, at least.  
  
You glance back as you hear the door to your apartment open and smile when you see Borracho coming in with a takeout bag.  
  
“That didn’t take you long,” You drop your voice back to its normal pitch.  
  
“Not long at all,” Borracho agrees. He sets the bag down on the counter, turning to where you’re laying on the floor beside Lissie and her playmat.  
  
“She should have her bottle soon,” He adds as he unpacks your food. You hum in agreement, reaching out and lightly pushing one of the plush hanging stars from the foam dome structure over Lissie’s head.  
  
“Bottle’s warming in a bowl of water on the counter. I made sure the water wasn’t too hot,” You nod in its direction, grinning as Lissie’s hands make grabs for the star. You glance up as you hear Borracho come over and lower himself onto the floor beside you.  
  
“Someone’s been researching,” He accuses, but he sounds a little proud, not scathing or teasing. You shrug, poking at the star again as its swinging begins to slow.  
  
“Nadia said she gets fussy if it’s cold, is all,” You mumble. Borracho leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder.  
  
“I can feed her if you wanna eat your breakfast,” He offers.  
  
“You sure?” You ask. He nods, and you smile.  
  
“I’ll get the next one,” You promise. He chuckles and murmurs, “ _Deal_ ,” before drawing you in for a gentle kiss.  
  
\--  
  
Oh, god, she’s awake again.  
  
“ _Sleep regressions_ ,” Nadia had cringed when she’d said so, as she was passing Lissie off to you, “ _Part of the reason I don’t wanna drop Lissie with ma-- Oh she’s just been so up and down lately-- But maybe you two will have an easy weekend!_ ”  
  
You two are not, in fact, having an easy weekend.  
  
Borracho got up last time, so you reach out, putting a hand on his shoulder to still him as you sit up.  
  
“You sure?” He mumbles.  
  
“Mhm,” You hum before sliding out of bed. You’ve set up the portable bassinet in your room, but you don’t want to keep Borracho awake as you try to get Lissie back down. You and Borracho had cleaned it up before heading in, and you’re glad for it; you can move around, pace back and forth between the kitchen and the living room without turning on any kitchen lights or bumping into a thing.  
  
Borracho wasn’t wrong. You have been researching. You read that bright lights could wake the baby up more, and keep both of you up longer. You read that you wanna get the baby down when she’s drowsy, not fast asleep. And you read that you don’t want to fall asleep sitting down with Lissie still in your arms. The last few days have been full of stealth-scrolling through mommy blogs and sites with names like _VeryWellParent_ and _WhatToExpect_. You step out into the living room and give Lissie’s diaper a whiff. Not the problem. So you take slow measured steps as you rub your hand soothingly over Lissie’s back. You hum quietly, casting the occasional glance toward the bedroom door, in case Borracho decides to come and check on you.  
  
Lissie is settling, though, and within a few minutes, you’re able to walk back into your room. She blinks up at you as you continue to hum and lower her into the bassinet, and you smile as her blinks slow, and her breathing evens.  
  
You climb back into bed, figuring Borracho is asleep, but then his arm wraps around your middle and draws you close. He nuzzles into your shoulder like he did in the living room and you smile, turning your head and pressing a kiss to his hair.  
  
“Go to sleep, babe,” You murmur.  
  
“I love you,” Is his mumbled, sleepy response. You grin, raising a hand and smoothing his hair gently.  
  
“I love you, too.”  
  
\--  
  
Nadia is asking about five questions in the space of a breath when she comes to pick up Lissie. Borracho’s answering all of them easily; he’s used to his sister’s rapid-fire questioning. Once Nadia’s satisfied with the answers, she pecks you both on the cheek and starts to head out.  
  
“As soon as you two need a sitter, you know who to call,” She winks at you two before she leaves.  
  
_As soon as._ Not _if you ever_ , not _maybe one day_.  
  
_As soon as_. She’s so sure about you two. How is she so sure?  
  
\--  
  
“...It would be different, if we…”  
  
“I know,” You nod.  
  
The two of you have been weirdly quiet since Lissie left. In fact, in an odd turn, you’ve grabbed beers, sat down, and Borracho has turned _the game on_ (football this time).  
  
“Because things would be--”  
  
“Benny.”  
  
He turns to look down at you, brow furrowing.  
  
“Do you want to talk about this right now?”  
  
“...Yes.”  
  
You lean forward, grab the remote, and shut the television off before you turn your body toward his, giving him your full attention. You see a little bit of tension that you didn’t see before drop from his shoulders, and he turns to face you, too. He takes one of your hands in his, intertwining your fingers.  
  
You’re straightforward with one another; you find surprises in each other’s questions and answers.  
  
You’re not panicked as hell by the end of the conversation. You’re not rushing over to Pinterest to plan the nursery, either. Borracho’s hand is still wrapped around yours. Things have shifted a little bit, but it doesn’t scare you like you thought it would.  
  
“...Promise me something?” You ask.  
  
“Anything, sweetness.”  
  
“You won’t go out drinking with the guys and accidentally say something like, ‘ _I should check in with the wife and kids_ ’.”  
  
He rolls his eyes, grinning.  
  
“That was _one_ time--”  
  
“You know that that’s all it takes with those bozos.”  
  
He chuckles, murmurs that he promises, and raises your joined hands to press a kiss to the back of yours. Then he cozies up to you, presses his face into your shoulder the way he’s been doing it all weekend, and curls his body against yours.  
  
“...How many do you want?” You ask after a moment.  
  
“Two? Maybe three?” Borracho admits. You hum, thoughtful.  
  
“Boys? Girls?”  
  
“Either,” He admits, “Long as you’re all healthy.”  
  
You smile, reaching up cupping his cheek.  
  
“You’d be a great dad.”  
  
He tips his head up, and he seems a little guarded, a little shy.  
  
“You think so?” He murmurs. You nod.  
  
“...Tell you what,” He says after a moment.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“The amount of hot sauce you take in? Our kid would probably come out breathing fire.”


	5. The Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the hell does this man still give you butterflies? You’re flustered in the middle of your own damn kitchen and he isn’t even there.

You wake up alone.   
  
You don’t like that, but it happens sometimes. You and Borracho don’t exactly have regular hours, it’s not like criminals keep their shenanigans to a 9-5 schedule. You used to be a light sleeper when it came to sleeping with someone else, but with Borracho… Hell, you don’t know if it’s how quietly he’s able to move or how safe you feel with him, but you almost never wake up when he gets out of bed.   
  
You pick up your phone and shut off the alarm; no texts, no calls from him or the guys, so things are probably status quo. You don’t have to be in the office for another hour. You slide out of bed and head into the kitchen.   
  
You’re alone, but you still smile when you see that he’s made you coffee and left you a post-it.   
  
‘ _Got called into work early. See you later. Love you, sweetness. -B_ ’ 

You shake your head a little bit, running your thumb over the ink. How the hell does this man still give you butterflies? You’re flustered in the middle of your own damn kitchen and he isn’t even _there_. Oh, but you can practically hear him saying it, too. And the fact that he even _stopped_ to write a note--   
  
You shake your head and stick it to the fridge under a magnet, alongside a few other notes he’s left you in the apartment.   
  
You’re smiling all through your first cup of coffee, as you get ready to go in, as you get in your car that morning.   
  
You usually try not to text Borracho when you know he’s out on the job - you don’t wanna distract him, and there’s a chance the guys’ll see it and get on both your cases, but you decide to risk it that morning. You pull your phone out and text him,   
  
_I love you_

It’s a few minutes before you get back,   
  
_**Wanna go out tonight?**_  
  
You raise a brow. Is this man up to something? 

_Big plans?  
_   
_**taking us on a tour of a hot sauce factory** _

_I’m pretty sure you’re making fun of me and I don’t appreciate it._

_**love you** _

_Love you too_  
  
\--

It’s the usual crew at the office - though Borracho is noticeably absent.   
  
You don’t ask, is the thing, but Nick makes it a point to tell you that Borracho is out getting a statement from a witness. You nod a little bit and say, “...Okay,” Before turning back to your work. You swear up and down that you hear Henderson asking Conners if you bought that, but you try not to read into it. You’re sure you heard them wrong; if something was wrong with Borracho, they’d tell you.   
  
Besides, you’ve already talked to him today, you know he’s alright. But while you’re in the office, you notice the guys muttering to each other way more than usual. You can’t help but wonder if this is what they would’ve been like if you’d left your headphones out those first couple of weeks on the job.   
  
Headphones-- Your _headphones_ , of course. The second you’ve got those suckers in, the guys’ll speak up at full volume.   
  
You open the desk drawer that you usually keep them in. Your jaw drops at the sight of another post-it. 

  
_Looking for something? ;) -B_  
  
You’d told Borracho that you found out about most of the pools because of your little headphone trick. But why the hell has he taken them today? You close your drawer, narrowing your eyes.   
  
Oh, something is _definitely_ up.   
  
\--   
  
“Really, you haven’t seen him all day?” Isobel asks. You glance up from where you’re bouncing her son on your knee. You’ve stopped by after work; you’ve got a little time before you need to be home to get ready.   
  
“Nope,” You shrug, “He got called into work early, and-- I don’t know, Nick said he was out speaking to a witness. We texted a little, but he’s been pretty busy today. We’re going out later, though.”   
  
“Ooo,” Nadia coos from behind you, where she’s feeding Lissie, “Do you know where?”  
  
“ _No_ idea, he hasn’t told me… I mean, he joked about a hot sauce factory, but the ones around here don’t have late tours.”   
  
You may or may not have checked while you were at work. His sisters are snickering at you already; they’ve seen you at barbecues, they know about the hot sauce packets you keep in your purse. You smile, laughing a little yourself.   
  
“It’ll be nice to go out, though. We haven’t had, like, a date-date in a while,” You realize it as you say so. Honestly, you haven’t really thought much of it; it’s not like you mind spending the night in with Borracho, you’re never bored.  
  
“...You know, you’re the first girl Borracho brought home in a really long time?” Nadia says, lowering herself into the seat beside Isobel. You raise a brow. You haven’t heard this before.   
  
“Really? How long?”  
  
“Oof,” Isobel mutters, “Jeez, the last would’ve been-- What, Angela?”   
  
“Which one was Angela? Highlights or lip piercing?” Nadia asks.   
  
“Lip piercing.”   
  
“Like, almost four years-ish?” Nadia offers.   
  
“ _‘Lip piercing’_?” You repeat, amused, “I think I’ve got more questions about who ‘highlights’ was-- And what my attribute would be if you were describing me to someone else.”   
  
\--   
  
“No wig tonight?”   
  
You glance back at Borracho, arching a brow as he leans in the doorway of the bathroom. The pink wig you’d worn to the club a long time ago has made a reappearance a few times since you’d started dating.   
  
“Not tonight, babe,” You chuckle before you lean forward to do your eyeliner. You lean away from the mirror once you're finished, putting the cap back on the liner. Borracho steps into the bathroom, smoothing his hands over your hips. He presses a kiss to your neck before he cuddles up against you.   
  
You giggle, tipping your head to the side.  
  
“Maybe next time,” You add.   
  


“I ain’t picky,” Borracho mumbles. You turn in his arms.   
  
“Gimme a kiss before I put my lipstick on,” You order. Borracho smiles.

“You sayin’ you’re not gonna kiss me once it’s on?”

“Oh, I’m absolutely gonna. Kiss me anyway,” You retort. You lean up, pecking Borracho’s lips a few times. His smile widens with each until he catches your lips with his. He lifts a hand from your hip, sliding it over your back. You sigh, leaning into his chest and wrapping your arms around his waist. You aren’t sure what it is, but something feels different about tonight. It isn’t how Borracho watched you get ready; he does that often. But this just feels sweet - so deliciously soft and slow. You can’t put your finger on it - but you aren’t rushing to, either. You just revel in Borracho’s warmth and closeness. He hums softly, squeezing your hip gently before he lifts his head, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

“Finish getting ready, we’ll be late.”

“Or you could keep kissing me,” you mumble the argument against his chin. Borracho chuckles, cupping your chin and pecking your lips again.   
  


“Later, sweetness.”   
  
\--   
  
“You don’t think we’re actually going to a hot sauce factory, right?”   
  
“No, of course not,” You scoff.   
  
“...You checked whether or not there were any open, didn’t you.”   
  
“...Might’ve taken a look.”   
  
Boraccho laughs, raising your joined hands to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of yours.   
  
“Why?” You add, glancing over at him.   
  
“Couldn’t bear to break your heart like that.”   
  
\--

The thing is, you guys had discussed it a few more times - the whole marriage thing. You’d never set a hard date, a deadline. You weren’t going to disappear if a ring wasn’t stuck on your finger within the next year or anything. But the last time you’d spoken about it seriously had been after Borracho had been shot.   
  
“I hated not being able to get back there and see you were alright for myself,” You’d admitted, “And-- Look, I love your family, but-- If anything like that ever happens again and they make me wait three fucking days to see you, Benny, I swear to god--”   
  
“I know,” He’d mumbled into your hair, “I know, and-- this is gonna sound shitty, but they were testing you, a little. I’ve had a couple of other girlfriends that saw me that way and couldn’t handle it. They wanted to see if you’d stick around.”   
  
You’d _humphed_ , and snuggled deeper into his side. And he’d hesitated before saying, “If we were married, you would’ve been able to see me right away.”   
  
You’d glanced up at him and murmured, “I know.”   
  
“...Still think my sisters would kill us if we eloped?”   
  
“You know they would.”   
  
\--   
  
Beyond that, well, you hadn’t spoken about it much. At least, not with Borracho. You had with his sisters, looking back on it - about what kind of rings you liked (Megan and Isobel had each asked you if you liked theirs - Megan’s was a little too flashy for you; Isobel’s was close to what you liked in stone and size). You’d even tried Regina’s on (“For fun, honey, I’m curious,” She’d pressed you. It had been half a size too small). You didn’t think anything about it, though. You’d grown incredibly close with his family.   
  
“Aw, so sweet!” Nadia had cooed, seeing someone on tv propose to their girlfriend on the big screen at a football game, “Would you ever like something like that?”   
  
“Nah,” You’d wrinkled your nose, shaking your head, “So impersonal -- all those people staring at you. Plus-- Football?”   
  
The face you’d made had Nadia in stitches. 

\-- 

The two of you have dinner at one of your favorite restaurants. Borracho’s hand is in yours nearly all night, holding it in the car, on the table, on the way in and out of the restaurant. After dinner, the two of you drive up to the Hollywood Bowl Overlook. He shuts off the car, and the two of you talk and make out lazily like a couple of teenagers. His hand smooths over your thighs and your stomach and your shoulder and your side; you tug at his hair and slide your hand under his collar and smooth your fingers over his tattoo.   
  
It’s like you were when you were getting ready - sweet, unhurried, soft. But you want to be home, and you want to take him apart at your leisure, without worrying about getting caught or being crammed uncomfortably in the front seat of the car, and you tell him as much. Borracho chuckles softly and slides his lips along yours in a half-kiss before murmuring, “Whatever you want, sweetness.” 

\--

You cuddle up against him as you wait for him to unlock the front door, slipping your hands under his t-shirt and running your nails over his sides. He huffs and fumbles with the keys a little, and you hide your grin in his shoulder.

“Having some trouble there?” You tease, smoothing your palms over the same spots.

“You’re a menace, sweetness,” He mutters before opening the door. You slide your hands out from his shirt so that the two of you can make it inside without any further incident. The door gets shut and locked, the hall light flicked on, and you’re already reaching for him again. He cups your cheeks, sweeping his thumbs over your cheekbones.

“Hey,” He murmurs.

“Mm?”

“I’ve-- Been thinking,” He manages between kisses, even as you’re trying to nudge him back toward the bedroom.

“Uh-oh,” You tease before nipping at his lip. Borracho laughs, leaning away to look at you.

“Listen to me,” He murmurs after a moment. Your brow furrows a little, and his finger reaches up to smooth away the little wrinkle before he chases the touch with a kiss.

“How long have we been together, huh?”

“Almost two years,” You say, letting your hands settle on his shoulders.

“The guys...They started betting whether or not you’d be able to stick through the week,” He shakes his head, and you bite your lips, because you know that they did, those ridiculous idiots, “But you stuck through -- all week, all month, all year and you’re still here… The second I knew you’d stick around here, though, with me,” he squeezes your hips, “Was that night, after I’d been coordinating with the FBI. You came over, you stayed, and... And I knew I didn’t want you to _go_ …”

Usually by now you’d cut in, make a joke, but there’s something different about the way Borracho is looking down at you. So you just listen, smooth your fingers over the fabric of his shirt because even now, you can’t keep still.

“And I know that sometimes my family can be a lot-- And so can work--” He’s talking about when he was shot and you both know it. Your stomach turns at the reminder and you lower your eyes. He cups your chin and lifts your eyes to his again, “But I can’t imagine waking up without you, or-- Or coming home without you here… And I know you were worried when I was hurt. I hate that you couldn’t see me right away, and I don’t ever want you to have to go through that again... I love you, sweetness, and I know you love me.”

“‘Course I love you, Benny,” You manage after a moment, eyes searching his. He smiles, nudging his nose against yours. You’re distracted, leaning up into the motion, and you don’t notice him reaching into his pocket.

You frown as he leans away, but that frown melts into shock as he sinks to one knee, small velvet box in hand.

He opens it.

“Will you marry me, sweetness?”

You don’t know if you’re supposed to look at him or the ring-- and then you realized you haven’t said anything, but you’re nodding and your eyes are tearing up. You manage to get out, “ _Of course I’ll marry you._ ”

And Borracho’s face splits into the widest grin. He pulls the ring out of the box and slips it onto your proffered left ring finger -- and then laughs as you tug him up from the floor. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and press your face into his neck. He’s holding onto you, too, tight and steady, and pressing kisses to your cheek, your ear, your head, your shoulder - anywhere you can reach.

You turn your head to meet his lips, curling close to him, and he finally lets you steer him back toward your room.

\--  
  
"Why did you take my headphones?” You ask later. Borracho has his head on your stomach. He’s been nuzzling contentedly for the last few minutes, dropping the odd kiss to your stomach or hip, touchy in your afterglow.  
  
“Didn’t want you listening in on the guys,” He murmurs, “Didn’t want them spoiling it.”   
  
“Why’d you have Nick tell me where you were?”   
  
“Did you ask him?”   
  
“No, he just came over and told me.”   
  
Borracho scoffs, shaking his head, “Told him to only tell you if he _asked_.”  
  
“The rest’a the guys weren’t all that subtle, either. Kept whispering.”   
  
“And _that’s_ why I took your headphones.”   
  
You chuckle, sweeping his hair away from his forehead.   
  
“You know me too well, baby.”   
  
You lift your hand and eye the ring, unable to help the smile that grows on your face. Borracho turns his head, kissing your wrist.   
  
“You like it?” He asks.   
  
“I _love_ it,” You swear, lowering your hand to stroke his cheek, “And I love you.”   
  
You’ve lost track of how many times the two of you have said it in the last couple of hours.   
  
You know that tomorrow morning, you’re going to have to start thinking about planing. You’re going to call your parents to give them the news. You’re going to be going over to Isobel’s for breakfast with the family, too, and you know you’re going to hear all about how long they’ve known about Borracho’s plan. And then the planning, the ideas for the wedding that they’ve probably had for months, the fact that you’re gonna have four flower girls and three little ring bearers from Borracho’s nieces and nephews alone.   
  
You don’t have to worry about that for a few hours yet. All you care about is the man leaning up for another kiss, another two kisses, another three kisses. You curl your arms around his shoulders and squeeze his hips with your knees as he murmurs, “ _I love you, too, Mrs. Magalon_ ,” Against your lips.


	6. The Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m serious! I really didn’t think you two would last. And I mean that in the nicest way possible,” Nick insists, looping his arm around your shoulder as he steers you toward the bar you all go to after work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F l u f f y
> 
> Also the way this one is styled is that each section flows into the other, so the line of (most) of the previous sections is the same as the beginning of the following.

“Ooh, how about  _ yellow _ ? It’s real popular now,” Isobel bumps her hip against yours as you steer Lissie’s carriage. You wrinkle your nose.    
  
“I don’t know… I want a color that can suit everyone. Jewel tones seem a little safer? Or maybe like a… A grey, like a slate grey,” You offer.    
  
“What’s Ben think?” Nadia asks.   
  
“He said he doesn’t care about the colors and to call him in when it’s time to pick the DJ and the cake,” You roll your eyes.    
  
“Sounds like Ben,” Isobel snickers.    
  
“How many bridesmaids are you gonna have again?” Nadia asks as the three of you leave the park.    
  
“Mm, well, you, Megan, and Iz, obviously, and my cousin’s gonna fly in from home… And yeah, that’s it.”    
  
“Smaller’s the way to go,” Isobel shook her head.    
  
“That one had ten bridesmaids.  _ Ten _ ,” Nadia pointed to Isobel.    
  
“Yow,” You muttered, “That’s… That is a lot of people.”    
  
“Ten in yellow, imagine,” Nadia teased.    
  
“Can’t even picture  _ myself _ in yellow.”   
  
“Have you started looking at dresses yet?”   


\--

“Funny, Isobel asked me the same thing a couple of days ago-- This one?” You glance back at Borracho for confirmation as you point at a box of cereal. He nods in confirmation and you pluck it off of the shelf. You set the box down in the cart he’s pushing before crossing it off of your list.    
  
“Well?” He asks.    
  
“Hm? Oh-- Why are you asking?” You raise a brow at him. He shrugs a shoulder.    
  
“Just wondering. You want me to be involved, right?”    
  
“Uh huh,” You smile, “And I’ve…Done some Googling, yeah.”    
  
“Seen anything you like?”    
  
“ _ May _ be.”   


Borracho looks down at you.    
  
“With you, that means yes,” He accuses, and you smile. He knows you too well.    
  
“Not  _ a _ specific dress, just like… Style and stuff.”    
  
“I’m willing to bet you’ve got a folder full of research.”    
  
“I’m willing to bet that you just walked past three items on our list because you’re more focused on my dress. Back the cart up, mister.”    
  
Borracho chuckles and glances behind himself, backing up and stopping when you put your hand on the cart.    
  
“ _ Ah _ , of course. How could I have walked past this?” He teases as you step around to grab your hot sauce.   
  
“I don’t know, but it worries me,” You retort, glancing back at him. You pause, freezing, before you turn wide eyes up at Borracho. He frowns.    
  
“What is it, sweetness?”    
  
“I just got a  _ great _ idea for the wedding favors.”    
  
He looks at you, and then at the bottle of hot sauce in your hands.    
  
“ **_No_ ** .”    
  
\--   


“I’m serious! I really didn’t think you two would last. And I mean that in the nicest way possible,” Nick insists, looping his arm around your shoulder as he steers you toward the bar you all go to after work. You roll your eyes.    
  
“You all had a pool going on how long we’d last, didn’t you.”    
  
Nick doesn’t answer that, so you follow it up with, “How much did you lose?”    
  
“... A bit.”    
  
You raise a brow.    
  
“And then a bit more.”    
  
You scoff, laughing.    
  
“God, you’re a shithead. All’a you are shitheads.”    
  
“I knew you’d last when he was in the hospital, though,” Nick adds, “When you asked if we’d killed the guy that had done it.”    
  
“You asked that?”    
  
You glance back at Borracho, who’s caught up with you two. You hadn’t even heard him coming.    
  
“... I was just wondering,” You admit, catching hold of his hand with yours, “And I was  pissed .”    
  
“What would you have done if they hadn’t?” He asks, intertwining your fingers.    
  
“Let’s maybe not think about that, babe.”    
  
“Hey-- Hey hey hey,” Henderson squeezes in beside the three of you, and you’re now effectively blocking off the sidewalk, “You gonna be mad if we take your man to the strip club?”    
  
“ _ Dude _ ,” Connors hisses behind you. You roll your eyes. Tonight is Borracho’s bachelor party.    
  
“S’alright. It’s not like his sisters are taking me to  _ church _ ,” You point out. It’s also your bachelorette party.    
  
“He won’t be in the dog house?” Nick confirms, stunned. You shrug,    
  
“He knows who he’s coming home to and I trust him.”    
  
Borracho draws you out of Nick’s arm and under his own, pressing a kiss to your temple, murmuring,    
  
“You know I love you, right?”    
  
\--

  
“I know, baby. I love you, too,” You murmur, wrapping your arms around his waist. You’re a little tipsy, you’re not afraid to admit it, but you’re in a  _ damn _ good mood. The rehearsal went fine, the rehearsal dinner was  _ great _ . You didn’t expect your families to get along so well, but the Magalons have welcomed your family with open arms, and your family has been equally warm.    
  
It’s been a little over a year since Borracho has proposed. You’re getting married tomorrow.  _ Tomorrow _ . It feels too good to be real. The two of you are taking your time walking to the parking lot. You’ve decided to spend the night before the wedding apart - Borracho at your apartment, and you at the wedding suite at the hotel.    
  
“You excited for tomorrow?” You glance up at him. He grins down at you.    
  
“Excited for you to be my wife, sweetness,” He murmurs. You place your hand on his chest to stop him moving and lean up for a kiss. He draws you in, brushing his lips warmly over yours before he dips his tongue into your mouth. You lean against him, sighing as his grip tightens on you.    
  
“C’mon, girly! You can kiss him all you want tomorrow!” Nadia calls from where she’s waiting for you deeper in the parking lot. You chuckle, unable to help it. Borracho leans away, resting his forehead against yours.    
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmurs.    
  
“Yes you will,” You agree, “A  _ whole _ lot.”    
  
Borracho laughs, leaning in and pecking your lips again.    
  
\--    
  
You’re walking down the aisle alone. A few moments ago, you had a death grip on the bouquet, but now you can see Borracho, and your shoulders have relaxed, your grip has loosened. You didn’t have cold feet, you had jitters, knowing everyone would be staring at you.    
  
That doesn’t matter now. Because sure, there are people staring, but they’re your family and friends, and they’re all there to support you and Borracho.    
  
And he’s watching you, grinning, and lifting a hand to swipe away a tear.    
  
If it were  _ any _ other day, you’d put money down on the guys giving him shit for that later.    
  
It’s not any other day, though.    
  
\--

  
You each walked down the aisle alone; you walk back up the aisle together. 


	7. The Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don’t want to give a voice to your panic before you know that anything’s actually wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The next two chapters will deal with pregnancy, societal pressure, and concerns around pregnancy! I’ve CW’d them for that in the tags!! Also - I’m not a doctor. Just, you know. Disclaimer.
> 
> Also cursing; canon-typical violence

It’s been a question since before you and Borracho even get married:  _ So when are you two having kids?  _

You just laugh it off when his sisters ask, and his mom, and Gabriel, that one time. When you were dating it was only once in a while - usually when you turned down the offer of a beer because you’d agreed to be the designated driver between the two of you for that night. Nadia or Megan or Iz would sidle up to you and pat your stomach and waggle their eyebrows, and you’d just laugh and knock their hands away and screech, “I’m driving!” 

But now that you’re married… Well, it’s almost constant.    
  
And it’s not just from his family. You know that the guys have a pool going about whether or not you’ll be pregnant by the end of the year.    
  
The website that you guys used to register for wedding gifts is popping into your inbox every other week to set up your baby shower registry.    
  
And you and Borracho have talked about the kids thing before, a few times since the weekend that you looked after Lissie. Thing is, you haven’t talked about it in a while, but you know that Borracho’s thinking about it. He hasn’t been smoking - he’s been using nicotine patches and chewing gum like a fiend. When you ask him about it, he just shrugs and mutters something about, “ _ having to kick the habit some time” _ . He’s a little moody about it, sure, but you had been very clear when the two of you spoke that you didn’t want cigarette smoke about your child - “Besides,” You’d murmured when you’d talked about it, “It’s not good for you, Benny. And I want you around for a long time.”   


That fact that he’s doing that sort of signals a ‘ _ soon? _ ’ to you, but you don’t talk about it. You’re not sure you want to. Talking about it would make it real, and making it real might freak you out, and you really,  _ really _ want to bask in your honeymoon phase for a little while longer.   


His family  _ is _ still pretty pushy about it.    
  
When you get handed a kid at any family function, or you help of your own volition, you inevitably hear something somewhere behind you about, “ _ practice,” _ and  _ “it’ll be different when she has her own”. _ And you know that it’s because they’re excited for you and Borracho, but it’s starting to wear. There’s one day when you’re cleaning popsicle off of Lissie’s chin, and you hear Nadia coo about you looking like a little mother. And you’re so, so tempted to ask if she’d rather you just let her child make a mess. You’re not being a mother, you’re just trying to help. If Borracho were doing this, would he look like a little father to them?    
  
But instead you give her a tight smile and turn back to Lissie, and let the baby’s garbled speech make you smile for real. 

\-- 

That night, you wait until Borracho has fallen asleep before you get up and do a little research. 

And a little research brings on a lot of worry. 

\-- 

You still don’t talk about it. The talking will make it feel real.    
  
You don’t want to give a voice to your panic before you know that anything’s actually wrong.    
  
But the thing is you and Borracho have  _ technically _ been trying since you got married. You’re not on the pill, you’re both clean, so you haven’t been using condoms. You’ve been tracking your cycle, you know your ovulation window, and while you did think,  _ once _ after you came back from your honeymoon that you two might be-- Well, your period was just a couple of days late, so it didn’t matter anyway. You didn’t mention it to him.    
  
You read an article that tells you that 80% of couples conceive after 6 months of trying; the same article tells you that  _ 90% _ conceive after a year of trying. You and Borracho have been trying for 8 months and-- nothing.    
  
So maybe there’s something wrong? Some irregularity with your ovulation cycle - or maybe  _ he _ could have a low sperm count, you don’t think he’s ever gotten that checked out.    
  
All of this is in your head. It’s not  _ on your mind _ , it’s just hanging out in the background. Occasionally it drifts to the forefront and you wave it back to its place, along with the worries that if, somehow, you ever managed to have a child, you’d be an awful mother and the kid would hate you. 

  
\--   


Borracho, bless him, waits. He doesn’t ask right away. Whatever it is that’s wrong, he can tell you’re not ready to talk about, and he’s got the feeling that the conversation will make him want a cigarette, anyway, so maybe it’s for the best that he lets you come to him with it.    
  
\--   
  
Your first anniversary should be sweet.    
  
It’s not.   
  
It’s actually kind of an ordeal.    
  
The guys have been working an art theft case for the last three months and you’ve been so consumed by it that you haven’t even had time to worry about whether or not you can get pregnant because the two of you have been so busy that you’ve hardly had time to have sex. After a particularly hard night, Borracho broke down and bummed a cigarette off of Connors, and you didn’t begrudge him that one. You’d just sat outside of the bar with him and rubbed your hand between his shoulder blades.    
  
“I’ll be back on the patches and gum tomorrow,” He’d sworn to you, and you’d just told him that it was alright, and that you loved him, and that you knew that this was hard for him. He’d flicked the cigarette butt away and practically pulled you into his lap, kissing your neck and murmuring that he wanted to marry you all over again.    
  
And then Nick had come out and threatened to arrest the both of you for public indecency.   


But you and Borracho spend most of your first anniversary getting ready for a sting. Nick’s managed to rope you into field work again (much to Borracho’s chagrin). You’re posing as a buyer, and meeting up with the man that had stolen the painting from the Kohn Gallery. None of the guys can do it - this dealer’s been busted by them before, he’ll recognize them right off. You’re the only one whose face he doesn’t know.    
  
When you show at the station, the guys let out little mutters; Connors gets out half of a wolf-whistle before Nick punches him in the shoulder. You arch a brow. You’re not sure what it is - the suit you’ve opted to wear, the pointed-toe heels, or the wig. This one isn’t pink, of course - it’s similar to your hair, but it has a loose, styled wave to it.    
  
“Why don’t you ever come to the office like this?” Henderson teases, even as Borracho stares him down.    
  
“You all never get dressed up for me, why the  _ fuck _ would I get dressed up for you?” You retort.    
  
“She’s got a point. We’re rollin’ out in ten,” Nick adds. Borracho stands from his desk and walks over to yours, watching you reach under the wig to put in your earpiece.   
  
“You’re sure you wanna do this?” He asks.    
  
“It’ll be fine,” You glance at him. He purses his lips, and you reach out, cupping his chin, then teasing your nails through the goatee there.    
  
“Come on, this isn’t my first field op.”    
  
“We won’t be in there with you,” Borracho reminds you, though he sounds like he’s much more hung up on that fact than you are.    
  
“I know, but you’ll be nearby,” You say, “And the second I confirm the painting is the one you guys have been looking for, you’ll grab the guy and we’ll be set.”    
  
Borracho doesn’t look so convinced, but you lean up and peck his lips and murmur, “Relax, Benny.”    
  
And you expect hoots and hollers to go up from the guys, but you hear nothing. They’re giving you two this moment. They know what today is; they know how worried Borracho is. And the guys can be dicks sometimes, but you love them.   


\--

Your first anniversary should be sweet.    
  
It’s not.    
  
It’s kind of an ordeal.    


You wind up sitting on the back of an ambulance because a bullet grazed your right arm - not deep enough to do real damage or hit anything serious, but bad enough to need stitches.    
  
Borracho is leaning against the ambulance, jaw clenched as he stares down at your pointed-toe heels. You’ve tried to engage him, and you’ve tried to get him to look at you, but he just won’t. When you’re leaving, you expect him to bum a cigarette off of Connors, but he doesn’t. Instead you drive home in silence, his hand territorial on your thigh, like the art dealer is in the backseat, like the bullet is hovering near your shoulder, but neither will be able to touch you as long as he is.    
  
He waits until you two are  _ in _ your apartment to draw you into his arms and hold you tight against his chest. You go willingly, and you cuddle against him and hide your wince in his neck as your arm twinges when you take hold of him in turn. Some part of you is tempted to joke, to murmur, “ _ Happy anniversary?” _ , but you consider how mad you’d be if he did that to you just now, and instead you murmur, “It’s just a scratch.”    
  
And maybe that’s not the best thing to have said, either, because his grip tightens on you, and he mumbles, “Scratches don’t need stitches, sweetness.”    


\--   
  
That night, he’s gentle with you, the way you were with him the first time the two of you were together after he’d been shot. He takes his time undressing with you, pushes your hands away from your clothes when you reach to remove them yourself. When you tease and ask him if he wants you to keep the wig on, he shakes his head and covers your body with his, and he nuzzles against your jaw and murmurs, “You,” sweet and desperate, “I just want  _ you _ .” 

\-- 

It’s a hiccup. A bump in the road. A reminder that what you two do is dangerous, that anything can happen.    
  
Time passes. The wound heals.    
  
The worry comes back.   


\--    
  


You wake up with cramps one morning. You go into the bathroom - you confirm it is what you think it is. You tiptoe around your bedroom, pull on sweatpants and head into the kitchen to make coffee.   
  
It’s been a year and a half now, and you  _ are _ worried.    
  
Borracho never did say that kids are a deal breaker, but what if they are? What if he’s changed his mind? What if you change  _ your _ mind?   
  
Your vision is blurring with tears as you pour water into the coffeemaker. You can hear Borracho shuffling around in your bedroom, and you let yourself sniffle before you scrub at your eyes. You set your hands on the counter, taking a few steadying breaths as you hear Borracho come out of the bedroom. You hear him pause before he cuddles up behind you, his big, rough, warm hands settling comfortingly on your hips. He presses a kiss to the back of your head, then to the side, then brushes his lips against the shell of your ear.    
  
“What’s going on, sweetness?” He murmurs.    
  
You should’ve known better; the man knows you better than anyone, you can’t hide from him, not well. It’s a wonder you’ve managed to go this long without saying anything to him. You lean back against his chest and mumble, “I got my period.”    
  
It takes him a few moments, but he nods a little, turning and pressing another kiss to your head.    
  
“Okay.”    
  
“What if-- Benny what if I can’t-- And we can’t--...”    
  
Your eyes are welling up with tears again; your voice is wavering, and your throat feels tight with worry. He slides his arms around your waist, soothingly rocking the two of you side to side.    
  
“We’ll figure it out, sweetness,” He soothes, “We can talk to a doctor, we can look into adoption-- Anything you want.” 

“What’ll your family say?”    
  
“ _ Hey _ ,” Borracho turns you to face him. He lifts one hand to your chin and tips your head up to look at him.    
  
“This isn’t their marriage, this isn’t their decision. It’s ours.  _ We _ make this choice, you and me.”    
  
He reaches up and smooths away a tear when it escapes you.    
  
“And if that choice is no kids, then that’s  _ our _ choice, sweetness.”    
  
You can’t stop the tears now; you surge up and bury your face in Borracho’s shoulder and curl into him and mumble that you wanna marry him all over again. 

\--   
  
Your second anniversary is sting-operation and bullet-graze free.   
  
The traditional second anniversary gift is cotton.   
  
The box you give Borracho contains a cotton shirt that says ‘ ** _I’m Going to Be a Daddy!_** ’, and your (cleaned) positive pregnancy test.   
  
(You’ve got a matching shirt that says ‘ _ **You Can Stop Asking When We’re Having a Baby Now**_ ’.)


	8. The Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thing is, you think you’re able to keep it quiet from the guys for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter deals with pregnancy! I’ve CW’d them for that in the tags!! If you need me to add any additional tags, please let me know. I’m not a doctor and have never been pregnant. Just, you know. Disclaimer.

You don’t tell the guys the good news at first.  
  
Thing is, because you don’t tell them, they notice some _stuff_ about you.  
  
Stuff like the fact that you’re getting up to pee… More often than usual. You just pass it off as drinking a lot of water - hydrating way more, it’s been a goal of yours, anyway. They let that go.  
  
But then there is also that time Connors gets a tuna fish sub with extra mustard and relish and you nearly throw up in the middle of the bullpen. You manage to make it to the bathroom before getting sick. Borracho meets you in the hall with a bottle of water, a pack of gum and a kiss on the forehead. You take a walk around the block to get the smell out of your nose.  
  
When you get back to the office, all of the windows are wide open. You know it’s Borracho’s doing, but the guys are all ribbing Connors for bringing in the smelliest sandwich imaginable. With this distraction you manage to meet Borracho’s eye and mouth, _I love you_ , without anyone noticing.  
  
\--

The two of you have some stuff to figure out - moving into a new place is your first priority. Your current apartment just doesn’t have enough room for a baby. The two of you have been looking at a few places, have gone to a couple of open houses, but nothing has seemed like a good fit.  
  
Borracho, unsurprisingly, wants to move somewhere closer to his family.  
  
You do see the appeal - more people in close range to help with the baby. And you do love the Magalons. But you also… Kinda like having your space. And maybe that’s a little selfish of you, especially considering how much you know they’re going to offer to help you two with the baby.  
  
After your first prenatal doctor appointment, the two of you go looking at a few places. The two of you have mostly been looking at two-bedroom apartments. You see one or two that you kind of like, but the two of you agree that what you saw was not what you were looking for.  
  
You stop to grab a bite to eat - you’re getting sleepy (you’re so _tired_ these days, but Nadia tells you that that’s normal - so does Megan… And Isobel… And Regina, _and_ your mother), and Borracho didn’t eat before the two of you left the apartment that morning. The two of you cuddle up on the same side of a booth at a diner, and you don’t even care that you look like the kind of couple that you used to make fun of. You’re too comfortable, tucked into Borracho’s side. You’re half-asleep (“Resting my eyes, I swear,” You mumble when he accuses you of being completely asleep), and he’s scrolling through more apartment listings on his phone while you wait for your food.  
  
“Food’s here, sweetness,” He murmurs, and you vaguely register the light _thunk_ of plates being set on the table.  
  
“You want another cup of coffee?” The waitress asks, “You look like you could use it.”  
  
And she’s right, you’d _love_ one, but you need to start cutting back on the caffeine, so you give her a smile and ask for more water instead.  
  
“Our baby better appreciate my caffeine withdrawals,” You sigh, scrubbing at your eyes. Borracho chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple.  
  
“They will. Hey-- Gabriel sent me a listing. You up for checking out one more when we’re done here?”  
  
You consider it for a moment as you pick up your spoon and push your oatmeal around to help it cool a bit. If Gabriel sent it, it’ll probably be _quite_ close to the Magalons. And frankly, right now what you _really_ want to do is go home and curl up on the couch. But you might feel better after you’ve got some food in you. So you nod.  
  
“I could go for one more.”  
  
\--  
  
It’s a condo, not an apartment. It’s got plenty of light; the bedrooms are right across the hall from one another; there’s only one bathroom, but you think you could live with that; the kitchen is much more open than the kitchen you have now.  
  
It’s a twenty minute drive to the nearest Magalon home; they’re not right on top of you and you don’t feel underfoot.  
  
“What do you think?” Borracho asks as the two of you leave.  
  
“... I really love it, but I didn’t wanna say it while we were in there. What do you think?”  
  
“I think… We should look at the listing online again and then maybe go to the bank. See what we can do about a loan.”  
  
You grin.  
  
“I would _so_ be doing a little excited jump but I feel like if I jump right one, I am _going_ to throw up.”  
  
“I’ve got the gum.” 

\--  
  
Thing is, you _think_ you’re able to keep it quiet from the guys for a _while_ . You don’t intend to at first, really, you don’t, but they _do_ catch on to some things - like the fact that you’re not drinking when the group of you go out for drinks after work. You just pass it off as being the designated driver for the two of you, and the guys rib Borracho, telling him to let you have some fun once in a while.  
  
You’re able to hide the slowly growing bump under your jackets and shirts and dresses.  
  
Nick officially finds out first - you schedule a meeting with him to discuss maternity leave during your fourth month. He has a straight face for a few moments before he nods and congratulates you.  
  
“Thanks,” You smile, “Who won the bet?”  
  
“Connors.”  
  
“Mother _fucker_ , every time.”  
  
The guys won’t tell you how much the bet was for, though - they won’t even tell _Borracho_ , which is new, and weird. But the two of you shrug it off, and the guys insist on taking the two of you out that night, and make a show of buying you rounds of seltzer. 

\--  
  
“Do you want to know the sex?”  
  
You turn away from the ultrasound to look at Borracho.  
  
The two of you have been asking each other that all week.  
  
“We’ll get a bunch of yellow stuff if we don’t,” You’d pointed out, “Do we want a bunch of yellow baby stuff? _Or_ people will buy a ton of stuff one color or the other and then be like, ‘well gosh, now you can’t use it’ if it’s the other sex-- Even though we’ll use it anyway-- Am I overthinking this?” You’d asked, looking up at him from where you were cuddled back against his chest on the couch in your new condo. He’d looked down at you, brows raised.  
  
“You are, but it’s hilarious, so, please, keep going.”

“ _Do_ you wanna know?” You ask him now, because if there’s a time to stop the technician from telling you, it’s this moment. And Borracho glances from the ultrasound to you before he shakes his head a little.  
  
“Do you?” He asks. You smile and shake your head.  
  
“We’ll wait,” You say, turning to look at the technician again.

\--

“I love this green!” Nadia’s squealed declaration is ear-piercing, but you’re glad she approves of it. You laugh a little, watching her look around the room. You and Borracho painted the room a couple of days ago. The two of you had settled on a sage green color - not too in-your-face, but something that would be warm and welcoming.  
  
Borracho and Gabriel are out getting some of the furniture for the nursery now - the bassinet, the rocking chair, the combination changing table-dresser. Nadia’s dropped her kids off with Isobel to come over and help you guys start building some of the furniture.  
  
“You’re getting a rug?”  
  
“A small area one, yeah. Grey,” You nod.  
  
“How’s everything been?” Nadia asks, watching you lower yourself to lean against the windowsill.  
  
“Oh, it’s been…”  
  
Nadia gives you a knowing look, cutting off the, ‘ _being pregnant is great’_ spiel you usually give the guys at work when they ask (because as sweet as it is for them to ask, they don’t _really_ want to know). You sigh.  
  
“I’m constipated and my boobs are getting bigger.”  
  
Nadia nods, reaching out and patting your cheek.  
  
“Welcome to the club, honey.”

\--

“Stop scratching.”  
  
“I’m not scratching.”  
  
“I saw you scratching, sweetness,” Borracho chuckles, “I’ll get the salve, get on the bed.”  
  
You don’t bicker with him. He’s been a saint - giving you a hand up to stretch when you have leg cramps, helping around the apartment more when you’re tired - and rubbing salve when your stretching belly is itchy. You lean back on the bed and pull your sleep shirt up. You sigh, giving your growing baby bump a rub.   
  
“Not scratching, huh?” Borracho teases, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, “I see irritation.”  
  
“It’s _itchy_ ,” You whine.  
  
Borracho lets out a sympathetic hum before he leans down, pressing a kiss to your belly. You smile, watching him sit up and open the jar of salve. His sisters all swore by it - and they’d been right. It smells good, helps soothe the itch, and is a _life saver._  
  
Borracho scoops out a small amount and begins to rub it in. You sigh, resting your head back against the pillows.  
  
“We still have to narrow down names,” You remind him.  
  
He hums, nodding, and you reach out to the notepad you keep on the bedside table.  
  
“Don’t drop that on your face again,” He teases as he reaches into the jar again.  
  
“You made me laugh last time, so that’s still your fault,” You argue, but you’re giggling. You flip it open, finding your list.  
  
“Mmm… Start with boy names?” You offer.  
  
“Sure, sweetness,” Borracho murmurs.  
  
“So we’ve got… Liam… Santiago… Xavier… and Giovanni.”  
  
“I don’t like Giovanni,” Borracho says, “I don't like the nickname ‘ _Gio_ ’.”  
  
“Well someone’s name doesn’t necessarily dictate their nickname, _Borracho_ ,” You tease, “But I’m fine to take that one off of the list… I don’t think I like Liam so much anymore.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Mm. Liam Magalon. They kinda run together. LiammmMagalon.”  
  
Borracho chuckles, closing the jar of solve.  
  
“Liam’s out, then.”  
  
You reach out to the bedside table and grab the pen, crossing off _Liam_ and _Giovanni_ as Borracho stands up to put away the salve.   
  
“So that leaves us with...Santiago or Xavier.”  
  
“What about girls?”  
  
You turn the page.  
  
“Mmmm… Malia… Faye… and Xiomara.”  
  
“I like Malia,” Borracho flops onto the bed beside you.  
  
“Yeah?” You raise a brow, looking over at him. He nods a little.  
  
“Malia Magalon… Lia for short. Be cute.”  
  
“It would be cute,” You smile. Borracho watches you for a moment before he leans up, kissing you gently. You lower the notepad and cup his cheek, humming quietly.  
  
“Agreed, then?” He murmurs. You nod.  
  
“Malia if it’s a girl,” You murmur.  
  
“If it’s a boy?” He asks against your lips.  
  
“We’ll figure that out later,” You drop the notepad on the bedside table, reaching out to catch hold of his shirt with your other hand.

\--

You have two baby showers. You expect one, but not the other.  
  
They’re both sort of surprises in their own way.

\--

The first one is more traditional. It’s at Regina’s house - your friends, Borracho’s sisters, and your family are there. Borracho knows before you do that it’ll be happening. If you’re honest, you kind of suspect it. He’s on his phone all morning - you see his mom’s name, his sister’s names popping up. You don’t look too closely at the messages, but you’re suspicious when he mentions swinging by his mom’s to pick up a couple of things and asks you to tag along.  
  
He knows that the jig is up when you come out of the bedroom in a photo-ready outfit.  
  
“... Was I obvious?” He asks.  
  
“No, babe. I just know how Magalons do surprises now,” You tease, before pecking his lips, “Let’s go.”  
  
\--  
  
The second one you do not expect at _all_ .  
  
Nick asks you to drop a file to someone on another floor.  
  
There’s a moment where you think, ‘ _Can you ask someone that isn’t seven months pregnant?’_ , but you take it and go. The elevator takes a stupidly long time both ways. By the time you make it back, your desk has been decorated, the guys are all standing around it, and there’s a banner hanging from the fluorescent lights that says, ‘Surprise!’  
  
Tears fill your eyes and you cover your mouth with one hand and wave at your eyes with the other.  
  
“She’s crying! Pay up!” Nick yells.  
  
Borracho runs his hand over his face before directing his gaze at the ceiling.  
  
Once you’ve calmed down, you sit at your desk and the guys give you a few gifts for the baby. Henderson passes out cupcakes (you eat yours _and_ Borracho’s).   
  
“You guys find out if it’s a boy or a girl?”  
  
“Nope. We’re flyin’ blind,” Borracho says, rubbing his hand between your shoulder blades.  
  
“How much money is riding on it being a boy?” You ask, peeling the wrapper off of the second cupcake. The guys look between each other and you tip your head to the side.  
  
“C’mon, if you tell me you’re not betting on it, I am _so_ calling bullshit. Do you know?” You turn to Borracho, but he shakes his head, “Not a clue, sweetness.”  
  
“We’re gonna let it be a surprise. You’ll see,” Nick waves it off.  
  
\--  
  
“Settle down, tiny,” You grumble, looking down at your stomach, “You’ve gotta let mama sleep.”  
  
“Kicking again?” Borracho asks.  
  
“We’re having a soccer player,” You tell him as he comes over to the bed, “Or a can-can dancer.”  
  
“Maybe they’ll do both, why are you trying to limit our baby?” Borracho teases you. You chuckle.  
  
“Maybe they will-- Or maybe they hated that idea,” You wince at a particularly hard kick.  
  
Borracho lays down on his stomach beside you and leans closer to your belly.  
  
“No more kicking your mama, little one,” He murmurs, “We talked about this.”  
  
You raise a brow, peering down at him from where you propped up on a small mountain of pillows.  
  
“Did you?” You ask. He hums, nodding and rubbing a hand over your belly.  
  
“When exactly did you have this talk?” You add, “I feel like I would’ve remembered this.”  
  
“You were napping at the time, sweetness. This was a dad and baby talk.”  
  
You bite your lip, fighting a wide smile.  
  
“Do you have these talks often?”  
  
“Sometimes.”  
  
You reach out, running your fingers through Borracho’s hair.  
  
“...Are you excited?” You ask. You feel like you haven’t asked since… Well, since you told Borracho that you were pregnant. He nods, looking up at you,  
  
“A little nervous,” He admits, “But… Yeah, I’m excited. Are you?”  
  
“Mhm. Not just because I won’t be getting kicked… from the _inside_ , but… I wanna meet our kid.”  
  
Borracho chuckles and sits up, placing his hands on either side of your head and bracing himself as he leans in for a kiss. You smile, reaching up and cupping his cheeks.  
  
“... Well, thank you for the dad and baby talk. Tiny listened to you,” You glance down at your stomach.  
  
“Mm,” Borracho lowers his head and presses a kiss to your neck, “Anytime, sweetness.”  
  
\--  
  
Borracho’s at work when it happens.  
  
You try not to panic.  
  
You just take a deep breath and pick up your phone and call Nadia and say as calmly as you possibly can that your water broke and you need someone to drive you to the hospital. She doesn’t exactly… Answer, at first? She kinda screams - an excited one, but it doesn’t exactly calm you down.  
  
You call Borracho after Nadia tells you that she’ll drop the kids off with Regina and be right over.  
  
“Hey, sweetness. I just followed up with the witness Nick tracked down--”  
  
“My water broke, Benny.”  
  
“...Is this a drill?”  
  
“I know that class we took recommended drills, but I was so not into that idea, it seemed alarmist.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ \-- Okay, I can--”  
  
“It’s okay, Nadia’s on her way to get me. Just meet us at the hospital.”  
  
“The bag’s--”  
  
“Next to the door, I know, Benny.”  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
You let out a shaky little laugh because you’re a little freaked out right now.  
  
“It’s gonna be alright, sweetness,” He adds gently, “You sure you don’t want me to come and get you?”  
  
“It’s alright, Nadia’s closer. I’ll see you at the hospital.”  
  
“Okay. I love you.”  
  
“I love you, too, sweetness.”  
  
\--  
  
“She’s so small.”  
  
“...Can’t tell if that’s you or the drugs talking, sweetness.”  
  
“Shush. I’m just… I am just saying… She’s frickin’ tiny.”  
  
“Babies usually are.”  
  
“Stop ruining this for me.”  
  
Borracho chuckles, pushing your hair back from your forehead and pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his forehead against yours. The two of you peer down at your sleeping daughter together, quiet for a few moments.  
  
“Malia Rose Magalon,” You murmur. It’s the first time you’ve said her name aloud.  
  
“...Lia’s got a very tiny nose,” Borracho mumbles.  
  
You’re quiet for a moment before you glance up at him.  
  
“Literally what was I _just_ saying about her being small?”  
  
\--  
  
When the guys come by to see you in the hospital, they have a gift bag with them.  
  
“Guys, what even?” You nod to it.  
  
“Well, you know those bets we had on… Whether or not you were pregnant, boy or girl, that kinda thing…” Henderson lists.  
  
“Uh huh,” You nod.  
  
“Here,” Nick sets the bag on the bed. Borracho carefully lifts Malia out of your arms, shushing her as she whines. You reach into the bag, pushing aside the tissue paper.  
  
“We agreed that the pool money could all go to a… Better cause than usual,” Connors rubs at the back of his neck. You pull out a jar that’s filled with cash, labeled, ‘ _College Fund’_ .  
  
“Figured we’d get you guys started,” Zapata adds, tucking his hands into his pockets.  
  
There’s a moment of quiet in the room before Nick laughs, “She’s crying, pay up!”


	9. The Ordeal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re not in the field often - you haven’t been in a position to do anything in-person since the Sutton case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read. I was gonna make this a short chapter and then I didn’t! Whoops!
> 
> Brought about by @monicabennerman-blog asking how Techie got grazed by a bullet during The Worry chapter of The Pool

Eight charges of interstate transportation of stolen property, nine charges of theft from an interstate shipment, _fifteen_ charges of theft of a major artwork.  
  
You stare down at Max Auerswald’s file in shock and shake your head.  
  
“How the fuck is this guy not in jail?” You ask. Z whistles to catch your attention, waves his hand in a cutting motion across his neck to signal you not to ask that again. You open your mouth to ask why, but Nick is storming into the room, face set and stony, and you shut right up and lean back in your seat and give Z a small nod of thanks. He gives you an answering nod and a thumbs up. 

You turn your attention to the board as Nick sets it up.  
  
The last time the team nailed Auerswald was five years ago. The bust had accounted for the nine charges of theft from an interstate shipment and twelve of the fifteen charges of theft of a major art work.  
  
“He hit up The Getty and the Kohn with a crew of four, incapacitated the guards, knocked out the security system,” Nick tells you as the group gathers their notes.  
  
“Inside job?”  
  
“Good girl,” Nick confirms it with that, and you see Borracho bristle. You shoot him a look before turning back to where Nick is still pinning up pictures. The pictures of the crew that worked the job are all up, along with pictures of the artwork that the guys managed to recover. But there are only eleven pictures there.  
  
“The only piece we weren’t able to recover was Van Gogh’s Irises,” Nick’s arms are folded across his chest now, and he’s staring Auerswald’s picture down.

“It’s valued at $54 million,” Henderson tells you, “He swore up and down he didn’t have it, didn’t know where it was, but we got a tip from the FBI that it’s resurfaced. We worked the case last time, so it got kicked to us.”  
  
“Resurfaced where?” You ask.  
  
“Santa Ana,” Connors tells you, and you cringe, unable to help it. That’s outside of your jurisdiction.  
  
“Plan?”  
  
–

Borracho’s hated this from the beginning, you know that. You’ve been able to see it in the way he’s hovered around your desk when you’re listening to wire taps, when you’re pulling up rap sheets for the guys on the fly and cross-referencing known associates when someone asks.  
  
You’re not in the field often - you haven’t been in a position to do anything in-person since the Sutton case.  
  
But this _Auerswald_ seems to be Nick’s White Whale. So when you’re working late one night and Nick manages to get the guy on the phone over VOIP, and you take the call because the guy’ll recognize Nick’s voice, Borracho’s not happy about it. When you help Nick set a rendezvous with Auerswald at a small gallery in the LA area, Borracho’s even less happy about it.  
  
The night before it’s set to go down, you lay in bed beside him. You don’t push him to talk, you just trace your finger over his chest in aimless patterns. And then something occurs to you and you ask,  
  
“Would you be this worried if this was going down my first year with the team?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
His answer is flat and fast, and you push yourself up to peer down at him in the dark, trying to get a better read on what you’re sure are his frustrated features. You don’t want to turn the lamp on - it’s late, the two of you do need your sleep, but– but, well, now your mind is going about four places at once.  
  
“Really?”  
  
Borracho sighs, his hand skating up your back, gentle and unhurried.  
  
“I didn’t even like bringing you with me to plant the bugs at Sutton’s.”  
  
You frown– hell, you _pout_.  
  
“You told me I did a good job,” You argue, and you can’t help the petulance it leaves you with.  
  
“Sweetness,” Borracho sighs again, sounding very, very tired all of the sudden, “It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable, just… I know you’re safe when you’re in the office. There are too many variables when we’re out there, you know?”  
  
You do know. You worry about Borracho every day - you’ll never forget the day he was shot, or how it tore you up after. You don’t wish that on anyone, especially not on him. You’re certain he’s still frowning; his hand is warm and rough on your back, and you can feel the smoothness of his wedding ring against your skin. Rather than tell him that things are going to be fine or that he has nothing to worry about, you push yourself up a bit more, straddling his hips. His hands fall to your thighs, yours, to his chest. You hear his huffed little laugh, and you grin.  
  
_**Got him.**_  
  
“You know what tomorrow is?” He asks. You do know, but you decide to play dumb for a moment, and hum thoughtfully before answering, “Sunday?”  
  
He laughs louder this time.  
  
“Smartass,” He mumbles.  
  
“Mm, but I got a _cute_ ass, remember?” You tease, wiggling it against him before you lean down and kiss him. It’s dark, so you miss his lips a little at first, landing just to the left. But then he turns his head, and his hand curls around the back of your neck and corrects the angle, and you sigh, settling against his chest.  
  
The two of you should go to sleep, you really should, but you both _need this_.  
  
After you’ve tired one another out, after Borracho’s cleaned the two of you up, he pulls you into his side and nuzzles into your hair, mumbles, “Maybe we made a little Magalon.”  
  
And that hasn’t been on your mind in a while, but now it’s drifting out of where it’s made a home in the back of your mind. You feel your hand curl in on itself, pangs of anxiety coursing through you. You hum in answer and turn your head, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.  
  
“That’d be a hell of an anniversary gift, huh,” You tease instead. 

You can be worried about that later.  
  
–  
  
Borracho’s got to go in before you have, but instead of your customary ‘good morning’ post-it, you’re kissed awake.  
  
You come up from sleep slowly, drawn out by the feeling of his lips drifting over your neck, his facial hair tenderly passing over the same areas - not enough to mark, but enough to wake you. You let out a sleepy little grumble, and Borracho lifts his head. He nudges his nose against yours before he pecks your lips gently. You push the covers aside, ignoring the cool of the room in favor of the heat of his body, and loop your arms around his shoulders to dry and draw him back down with you.  
  
“Mm– _Sweetness_ ,” There’s a teasing and a warning to his tone. You heed neither of them as you try to slip a hand under his shirt. He laughs, drawing away, leaving you blinking sleepily up at him.  
  
“Didn’t want to go in before…” He trails off, uncertain, but you know what he meant: before he said _goodbye_ \- but the two of you don’t like that word. You’ll see him at the office before the rendezvous with Auerswald, but you’ll be with the guys. This is the last moment of real quiet the two of you will have for a long time. You reach out, taking hold of his hand and giving it a soft squeeze.  
  
“I love you, Benny,” You murmur sleepily. He smiles and ducks his head down, kissing you again.  
  
“Love you, too, Mrs. Magalon,” He murmurs, and you grin, “Happy anniversary.” 

–  
  
You drive to the rendezvous point alone. Borracho and Connors are in a car parked down the block; Nick, Z, and Henderson are in a surveillance van parked behind the small gallery that you’re meeting Auerswald in. 

The man is perfectly cordial. His face has been burned into your mind for the past few weeks: a stout gentleman, a round face - beedy, dark eyes and a snub nose. He’s slow as he takes you through the gallery; you can hear Nick getting impatient in your earpiece, and it’s hard not to get anxious yourself when you know your boss is ready to pop.  
  
But then you’re led into a small back room. There are no windows - only one door in or out. You look around, feeling claustrophobic for the first time in your life.  
  
“Awfully cramped conditions,” You comment as Auerswald flicks a light on.  
  
“You must understand,” he tells you, “That these matters are best dealt with in close quarters…Intimate settings…” And you’ve been trying to ignore the way that the man has been leering at you, but he’s been making it difficult. Instead, you focus on the painting.  
  
“It’s quite beautiful…” You say, “If it’s real.”  
  
He reels away from you, a hand coming up to his chest in shock.  
  
“Real?” He repeats. You give him a wary look.  
  
“Mr. Auerswald, forgive me, but this piece, while exquisite, may very well be an exceptional fake. How can I be certain? You are asking quite a bit of money and I’d rather not shell out for what will turn out to be an excellent forgery.”  
  
“Ma’am, I can assure you that this is an _authentic_ piece,” Auerswald swears. You keep the wary look on your face as you look over the painting.  
  
“But–”  
  
“No buts. If you’ve simply come to stare–”  
  
“If I wanted to simply stare, I’d have gone to a museum.”  
  
“As if you could still find _this_ Van Gogh in a museum,” Auerswald begins to laugh, as do you, for appearances – but in your ear, you can hear the van door being thrown open. It’s only a matter of moments before you hear the door of the shop being thrown open, the woman at the front scream, the sound of Nick’s voice and the thundering of the team’s footsteps.  
  
You didn’t have a gun - you weren’t allowed (you’d asked). So you have no way of holding Auerswald beyond the physical when the man began to make for the door, trying to close it. You reach out, catching hold of his jacket and yanking back.  
  
“What are you–” He begins to ask before his expression turns cold.  
  
You weren’t allowed to have a gun.  
  
No one asks criminals if they’re allowed. Auerswald’s is out of his jacket and points at you in seconds. You let go, taking a few steps back and raising your hands, watching him closely.  
  
“Auerswald!” Connors yells to draw his attention, but Auerswald doesn’t turn to look at him, or the rest of the team. You don’t look at the team, either - you’re too scared to look anywhere but at the man pointing a gun at you.  
  
“Drop it, you’re not making it outta here clean,” You hear Zapata warn.  
  
“You wanna add a murder charge to your rap sheet, be my guest,” Nick egged him on, “But you heard him, you’re not making it out of here without cuffs on.”  
  
You aren’t sure who fired first - you’d never know, really.  
  
It might’ve been Henderson, it might’ve been Auerswald. Either way, you hit the floor.  
  
Henderson fires at the guy’s foot, nails him, and he goes down; Auerswald fires, but misses you for the most part - a combination of your ducking out of the way and his flailing from being shot.  
  
Borracho is over you in seconds, murmuring that he has you, that you’re safe.  
  
“‘M fine,” You swear, your voice shaking a little as you reassure him, “I was just– I mean, in case–”  
  
“Sweetness,” His voice is tight; he’s got one arm under you to help you sit up, the other is resting on your right forearm. You vaguely register the sound of Z calling in medical for two people, and then you feel the seering pain in your right bicep. You glance down, see the blood seeping through your suit jacket sleeve.  
  
“…Is that all?” You try to tease, but Borracho wasn’t looking at you anymore.  
  
He was staring daggers at Nick’s retreating back.  
  
–  
  
“Stitches can come out in about ten days,” The EMT tells you, and thank her before you stand up. You’re a little shaky - from the adrenaline dropping away, or from your feet falling asleep in your stupid heels. Either way, Borracho’s hands are there to steady you. You lean against him, sliding your left arm around his waist.  
  
“Home?” You ask. He nods, eyes set ahead, and you know you won’t get anything out of him until you two are somewhere safe and quiet. You just brace yourself for the silent car ride and try to ignore the throbbing in your arm.


	10. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know that look by now. It’s the one that says, ‘hand the baby to one of my siblings’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guuuuuuys I only have one more chapter planned after this WOW honestly? It’s been a wild ride. Remember when this wasn’t even gonna be a series, it was just gonna be a really really long oneshot and now we have ... What we have?
> 
> Warnings: Cursing; canon-typical violence; self-image issues; light smut

“You okay?” Borracho asks in a mumble. You grunt, and nod, but you doubt he can see the nod in the darkness of your bedroom.   
  
“S’wrong?” He slides his hand over your shoulder as you sit up.   
  
“Malia needs to feed.”   
  
“How--”   
  
Malia’s wail cuts off Borracho’s question and you grunt again, throwing the covers aside and swinging your legs out of the bed.   
  
“Damn, you psychic now?” Borracho settles back on his elbows, “While you’re at it, any guesses on who’s gonna win the playoffs this year?”   
  
“Maybe,” You smile, “But betting is _illegal,_ Detective Magalon.”   
  
Borracho chuckles and flops back onto the bed.   
  
“Only asking for the sake of a friendly office pool, sweetness.”   
  
\--

“Oh-- Nadia, I don’t know--” You start into the living room, but she waves you off.   
  
“I’m right here, I’ve got her. We’re just going to play for a couple of minutes,” She promises. You glance back as you feel Borracho’s hands settle on your hips.   
  
“She’s done this before,” He teases gently. You hum, watching Nadia settle your one-month-old on the floor, on her stomach. You know that Nadia has children, they're all fine, but you’re still apprehensive.   
  
“Malia’s in good hands,” He presses a kiss to your head.   
  
“I know, I know,” You lean back against him, and he wraps his arms around you. You tip your head to the side instinctively as he noses along your neck, letting your eyes slide shut for a moment.   
  
“How are you doing?” He asks quietly before kissing your shoulder. You glance back at him.   
  
“Me?”   
  
“Yes,” He chuckles.   
  
“Oh… Fine,” You shake your head, reaching your hand up and teasing your nails through his goatee, “Are you alright?”   
  
“Mhm,” He hums, “Just checkin’ in with my wife, is all.”   
  
You smile and tip his head up for a kiss.   
  
\--   
  
“Benny?” You call out as you come in, looking around the living room. There’s a pause, then your phone buzzes.   
  
_Nursery_.   
  
You wince, typing back, ‘ _Sleeping?_ ’   
  
_Not anymore_   
  
Shit. Your phone buzzes again:   
  
_Kidding_ 😉  
  
Asshole. You shake your head a little, smiling, before you head back into the nursery. You stop in the doorway at the sight of Borracho sitting in the rocking armchair. He’s shirtless, with Malia curled up against his chest. You fold your arms across your chest, watching them for a few moments, knowing full well that he knows you’re there (the hall floorboards are quite creaky).   
  
“You wanna come in, Mama?” He murmurs, glancing up from Malia.   
  
“I didn’t wanna interrupt a dad and baby talk.”  
  
Borracho smiles and he nods you inside, “We just finished up.”   
  
“May I know what was discussed?” You walk into the nursery, glancing a note and making a mental note to neaten up after you’ve eaten.   
  
“Oh, just some basics. Looking both ways before crossing the street, no talking to strangers, how much we love her, that sorta thing.”   
  
“You know we’re gonna have to tell her these things way more times, right?” You tease. You catch hold of the back of the chair and lean down, pressing a kiss to Lia’s head before you lean up and kiss Borracho gently. He hums, smiles up at you.   
  
“Looking forward to it.”   
  
You smile, cupping his cheek.   
  
“You doing alright?” You murmur.   
  
“Yeah,” He nods, “‘Course. Why?”  
  
You shake your head a little.   
  
“Just checkin’ in with my husband,” You lean in for another kiss. 

\--  
  
“Who is that?” You gasp at Malia, “Who is that? Is that Dada?”   
  
“It better be,” Borracho mutters behind you as you hear the door close.   
  
“It is!” You grin at Malia, and she smiles back, gurgling.   
  
“Is Mama using her baby voice at you again?” Borracho asks Lia. He rests his hand on your lower back as you reach down and clean the bit of dribble on her chin, “Has she been using that voice all day, Lia-Bean?”   
  
“Yes she has!” You answer the both of them, and Borracho laughs, drawing you in for a kiss. 

\-- 

You know that look by now. It’s the one that says, ‘ _hand the baby to one of my siblings_ ’. But you usually get it because Borracho wants you to take a cat nap in one of the guest rooms in Regina’s house, or wants a couple of minutes of quiet with his wife. This-- this is a new variation of that. He’s frowning - deep, anxious, and his brow is stern.   
  
“Iz? I’m so sorry, can you take Malia?” You ask. Isobel waves off the apology (which you still haven’t shaken the habit of making when you ask one of the Magalons to take the baby, even after six months) and takes Malia out of your arms. The both of you shush her when she begins to whine, and you smooth a hand over her hair before you get up from the table and follow Borracho into the house.   
  
You give Gabriel a quick wave and a smile on your way, and it looks like he’s going to try and stop to talk to you guys, but then Borracho is grasping your hand and giving his brother a small shake of his head. Gabriel nods and steps back, heading over to the rest of the family.   
  
“What is it?” You frown. Borracho doesn’t answer you, just pokes his head into an empty guest room before he nods you in. You go, and he drops your hand, shutting the door behind you.   
  
“Ben, what’s going on?”   
  
“You tell me.”   
  
Your stomach churns uneasily, and you can’t even fathom what he’s talking about, except--   
  
You close your eyes, and your shoulders drop, and you turn your head away from him.   
  
“Mhm,” He hums, “When were you going to tell me?”   
  
“Tonight.”   
  
“Why wait that long?”   
  
“Because I wanted to have something in place. And I do, Megan’s gonna take Lia--”   
  
“Oh, so this is all worked out? That’s just fuckin’ perfect.”   
  
“ _Ben_ ,” You wince, casting a glance toward the closed door he’s leaning against, “Please, I-- I don’t want to do this here.”   
  
Borracho pushes a breath out through his nose before he straightens and yanks the door open and _leaves_.   
  
You don’t know if he expects you to follow or not, but you can’t bring yourself to. You lower yourself to the bed and rest your elbow on the bed post and pillow your head in your hand. 

\-- 

The team’s been working a case since Malia was about a month old. There have been a string of warehouse robberies and truck hijackings - mostly electronics, but a few firearms, too. Same crew, same M.O. The electronics have been turning up in shops all over L.A., it’s been difficult to pinpoint how they’re being disseminated; the firearms have been used in the following robberies and hijackings.   
  
Luckily for you all, Connors frequents a of the strip club that one of the suspects is also pretty fuckin’ fond of, and the guy started showing up more frequently, and throwing way more cash around than usual. Sure, it was a weak tip, but that weak tip turned into the guys taking rounds of loose surveillance at the strip club for about a month. That turned into a legit lead, a wire tap, a bust, and nearly catching the fucking guys.   
  
_Nearly._

Earlier this week, when you were in the office and Borracho wasn’t, Nick approached you about joining the guys for the next leg of their field op. They needed someone on-sight, coordinating with traffic managers on the off-chance the situation turned into a chase. His concern was the chase turning into a crash, casualties. It had happened with this crew before - it was why they'd gotten away at all.   
  
You told him you were on board.   
  
You just… Hadn’t mentioned it to your husband quite yet. Apparently Nick beat you to the punch during a briefing. 

\-- 

You and Borracho don’t talk for most of the rest of the time at Regina’s. You don’t talk on the way home. The both of you talk to Lia, but barely to one another. You take care of dinner; Borracho takes care of getting her to bed. You’re folding laundry on the couch and half-watching Wheel of Fortune with the volume low when Borracho comes back into the living room.   
  
He doesn’t say anything, but you know that the two of you needed to talk about it.   
  
“I wanted to have a plan in place before I said anything to you. I didn’t want you to worry about what we were going to do with Malia,” You say lightly, focusing on the onesie you’re folding before reaching into the basket for the next one.   
  
“Much as I appreciate that, I’m not worried about a plan being in place for a _day_.”   
  
You glance up and find Borracho speaking through gritted teeth as he stares down at the carpet:   
  
“I am _sick_ of Nick pulling you into the field on ops and I’m sick of you saying yes.”   
  
You blink at him for a moment, stunned.   
  
“Uh...Okay,” You scoff out a laugh, “Wow. Really sounding like more of a _you_ problem here, Ben.”   
  
“I’m not joking.”   
  
“Neither am I,” You pull another onesie out of the laundry basket, “Look, the team needs my help _on site_. There’s too much of a delay between those cameras and the traffic lights and the feed in the office. If their crew patches through to the cameras and fucks up the feed somehow, not only will _your_ lives be in danger, but so will the lives of anyone else on the road.” 

"This is my _job--_ "

"And it's not mine?"

"It shouldn't be. What, you wanna become a fucking detective?"

"Maybe I do."

You don’t, and you both know it, but you’re both pissed off. Borracho rests his hands on his hips and takes a deep breath before he lifts his head and,

"...One of us needs to be here for her."

It's quiet, and it's broken as it leaves him, and you realize it's not _him_ that he's worried about Lia not having around. And that _crushes_ you like a ton of bricks. It's not that Borracho thinks you're incapable; it's never that. You see now that his head is back in another case-- in the small, dim backroom of an art gallery, where a man is pointing a gun at you and Nick’s telling the guy to shoot and Borracho can’t _do_ anything.

"Benny," You set the laundry aside and reach out for him, "Both of us need to be here for her. Both of us are _going_ to be here."

And it's not a guarantee, you both know that, but it's what he needs to hear right now.

Borracho shuffles forward and kneels down in front of the couch, between your legs. He curls his arms around your waist and presses his face into your neck. You slide your fingers into his hair, press a kiss to his temple.

Borracho turns his head and blinks up at you, tired and a little guarded, and you cup his cheek as you murmur your apology. You give him a soft, sweet kiss. And then when you see that the wrinkle in his brow hasn't gone away, you give him another... And another, and another. They become a little less soft and quite a bit less sweet. His arms unwrap themselves from you to grip at your back and draw you toward the edge of the couch. You go willingly, both hands buried in his hair now-- But then you're gasping against his mouth as he slips his hand into the front of your sweatpants.

It's-- It's been a while. After you had Lia, your doctor told you there was no set timeline for when the two of you could have sex again, recommended you guys wait about six weeks ("You're going to be getting used to breastfeeding, you're going to be tired, and your body does need to recover from having Malia," She'd told you and Borracho with a smile before she'd turned to him, "And-- she might not _get there_ the first time. Don't take that as a critique of your performance -- and I don't want you to panic, either. It's normal." Borracho had given a stoic nod, and you'd seen a little flush on his neck at the advice, but when he'd glanced back at you, he'd had this look in this eye that said, 'Challenge accepted').

But you two are well past six weeks. It's not for lack of wanting, it's just a lack of time. It doesn't help that your schedules have been so crazy, that the only time the two of you practically have is when you're with his family, when you can easily hand Lia off to someone for a few minutes at least. There's been _stuff_ , sure-- when Regina or one of his sisters has taken Malia for the night, the two of you have spent the time curled up, making out like teenagers and getting your mouths on one another before falling the fuck asleep.

His fingers are working over your panties now, trailing over your clothed folds before they settle over your clit, making soft, concentrated circles. He's still kissing you, but your eyes are _squeezing_ shut, and your mouth falls open at the swooping sensation in your stomach.

"Benny," You manage to mumble before he's licking into your mouth, groaning in turn. You pull at his hair and press up against his hand, kissing him back and trying not to whimper.

"Sweetness," He breathes, and you tremble against him-- Fuck, he calls you that all the damn time, but it's just as precious to you now as it's ever been, as precious as when he calls you _Mama_ to Lia, " _Please_."

God, why is he begging? Doesn't this man know that you're just as desperate for him? You untangle your fingers from his hair and shove at the button-down he's got over his t-shirt. Borracho lets go of you for only as long as it takes to get rid of the damn thing before he's reaching for you again. You hurriedly reach for the hem of his t-shirt, and thrill as he growls but obliges you. It joins his other shirt on the slowly growing pile on the floor before he's leaning back in for another kiss.

His hands skirt up your back, the fabric gathering under his palms as your hands wander his chest.

But then one of his hands slips down to pull up your shirt hem, and it's a knee-jerk reaction, but you catch hold of his wrist to still him and mumble, "Turn the light off."

And Borracho's reeling back from you like it's the worst thing you've said tonight. You, personally, don't think it breaks the top five.

You're just feeling a little less secure about your body these days. It doesn't help that... Well, this case has had the team, Borracho included, around a lot of strippers. Look, you've got nothing against strippers, they’re just doing their job, and you trust your husband, but after having Lia… 

You don't meet Borracho's eye, just dart in and lay kisses to his shoulders and neck and mumble, " _Please_ ," with the same desperation he did.

And he still hesitates, but he reaches out and shuts the lamp on the side table off. Once he has, you loosen the grip on his wrist and slide your hand up his arm. You turn your head and mouth over the tattoo on his neck for as long as he'll let you before he's tugging your shirt up up up. You lean back just enough for him to take it off. You can't see, but you assume that it joins the pile with his shirt, as does your bra, once he's got it off of you.

"Lift up," He murmurs, fingers hooking your sweatpants and the waistband of your panties. You do as he asks, and he tugs them down, working the elastic down over your ankles pointedly. They get added to the pile. His hands steady on your ankles for a moment, and you feel him still.

"Benny?" You mumble, frowning. But then his lips are pressed to the crook of your right knee, and his hands are skimming up your calves. You suck in a soft breath, unable to help it.

Even in the dark, you can't hide from him. Or maybe you've just underestimated how observant your husband is. It doesn't matter that the lights are off - his hands are trailing over every part of you that you've been self-conscious about, and his lips and following close behind. He takes his time like he used to; he's careful not to squeeze, or poke, or linger too long; his touch is reverent and soft, and when you draw him up for a kiss, he goes. He goes and he holds you tight to his chest.

And Borracho's always been quiet, but tonight you're _sweetness_ and _gorgeous_ and _beautiful_. Tonight Borracho runs his mouth - how much he loves you, how lucky he is, how beautiful and sweet and _good_ you are for him - and you don't know if it's what you said or worry for what's to come or both. You clutch to him, and you can't speak-- your tongue feels like it's glued to the roof of your mouth.

\--

"Just as beautiful now as you were the day I met you. You know that, right?"

"Benny," You mumble. You're curled up into his side and he's smoothing his fingers over your side. He's carried you to bed from the living room - you're both sleepy and sated, but the man is still talking and you can't believe it's taken approximately six years of being together to find that ‘ _on_ ’ switch.

"I mean it."

"I know you do, baby."

You trail your fingers over his chest gently, and he grips your hand, bringing your fingertips up to his lips and pressing a kiss to each one.

"Still got the cutest ass, too," He murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice, and you grin. You can't help the fit of giggles it sends you into, and you press your face into his shoulder to quiet down.

\--  
  
“ _Mama_!”   
  
“ _Hear that, sweetness?"_ Borracho’s voice fills your ears after Malia’s exclaiming her first word, and your hand is clasped over your mouth, headphones in your ears at your desk as you try not to cry.   
  
“ _Mama!_ ”   
  
Borracho chuckles behind the camera as Lia descends into babbles of non-words, but they’ve never sounded sweeter.   
  
Someone knocks on your desk. You look up to find Nick there.   
  
“...Everything okay?”   
  
You pull a headphone out, and Nick's still there, but now he's blurry through the few tears that have welled up.   
  
“She said ‘Mama’,” You mumble, scrubbing at your eyes and feeling stupid for crying.   
  
“Oh, shit,” Henderson says behind you.   
  
“It’s okay, Borracho got a video,” You shake your head.   
  
“I wanna see,” Connors is breezing in with coffees, and the guys crowd around your desk the next moment. You watch the video again and again, and the guys ‘ _aw_ ’ over it, and you don’t even care if they’re just humoring you. 

\--

“Wave bye-bye to Aunty Megan!” Borracho raises his own hand, waving bye to Megan. You hear Megan laugh and say, “Bye-bye Malia!” And can imagine the wave that Lia’s giving her aunt.   
  
You pick up the plates with bits of cake still left on them and toss them into the garbage bag you’ve grabbed from the kitchen.   
  
You hear Borracho groan quietly as he comes back into the living, “I told you to let me do that, beautiful.”   
  
“I’m putting plates in a trash bag, Benny, it’s not heavy lifting,” You point out. He grunts and lowers Lia into her playpen before he joins you in scooping up leftover trash. Between the two of you, the living room is cleaned up pretty quickly. The kitchen’s already mostly clean - that always happens when you have the Magalons over. You wind up in there with Megan and Iz and Nadia, cleaning as you talk, and between the four of you, it’s practically nothing.   
  
Borracho takes the trash bag out of your hands and pecks your lips as he heads into the kitchen to get rid of it. You smile and sit down on the couch, resting your chin on your hand.   
  
“Well, Lia-Bean,” You look down at your daughter, smiling as she grasps her favorite bunny plush toy, “You’re one now, huh?”   
  
Malia looks up at you, lets out a shriek, and you nod.   
  
“I _know_. You’re practically two already.”   
  
“Don’t rush her. Or us,” Borracho grumbles, coming back into the living room. He plops onto the couch beside you and sighs, hooking an arm around your shoulders. You smile, leaning against him and closing your eyes as he kisses your head.   
  
“Can we order dinner out?” You ask.   
  
“Heck yes,” Borracho mumbles, and you chuckle. You’re both making an effort not to curse in front of the baby, but it’s also hilarious to you to hear your husband say ‘heck’. You tip your head up, wrapping your arm around his middle and tipping your head up to look at him.   
  
“Malia should go down for her nap soon.”   
  
“Mhm,” Borracho nods.   
  
“We should also nap.”   
  
“...Nap or…” He raises his brows, “ _Nap_?”   
  
“Either. I just wanna be in bed with you.”   
  
“We can arrange that, sweetness.” 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I been thinking…” He trails off, and you blink up at him, curious. He’s been springing little surprises on you lately, just like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Cursing... And fluff. Most of this is fluff. Most of this series has been fluff, which is a SHOCKING turn of events for me.

“Hi, Regina,” You smile, shifting Malia on your hip as you step into the house.    
  
“Hi, sweetheart-- Hello, Malia!” Regina grins as you lower your daughter to the floor. You smile as the girl clutches to her grandmother's leg, giggling. You lean in, pecking Regina’s cheek before heading into the kitchen.    
  
“Hey!” Nadia smiles when she sees you.    
  
“Hi,” You sigh, leaning against her for a moment.    
  
“Oof, I know that look. What’s wrong?”    
  
“Nothing,” You shake your head, “Just...Other parents sometimes. Someone asked me how old Malia was when I was picking her up from daycare, and I told her, right? And this woman goes, ‘Oh! I remember when  _ my _ son was twenty-four months,” You glanced around the kitchen before leaning a little closer so that none of the kids could hear you, “And I’m like, bitch, just say your child was two, like--”    
  
Nadia bursts out laughing, and you lean away, giggling and shaking your head.    
  
“God, I mean-- I get it when they’re younger, but she’s  _ two. _ Just say that. You save yourself so many syllables and you let me get out of the conversation faster,” You lean back against the counter, sweeping your hand through your hair, “Ben here yet?”    
  
“Yeah, in the back with Gabe.”   
  
You nod, relieved. Borracho had been worried he’d be at the office and late to his family’s for dinner. You’re glad he’s made it out on time, though.    
  
“You need a beer? You look like you do,” Isobel teases you as she comes into the kitchen.    
  
“Feel like I do,” You retort, rubbing your eyes.   
  
“Ben know you’re here? Where’s Malia?” She heads to the fridge.    
  
“Just got in. Lia’s with Regina--” You cut yourself off to cover a wide yawn.    
  
“Oof, girl, you know what,” Nadia laughs, “Go lie down, I think talking to that woman took it out of you.”    
  
“Good idea,” You sigh, pushing off of the counter.   
  
“What woman?” Isobel asks Nadia as you leave.    
  
\--   
  
“Aw, man. Nadia wasn’t kidding, huh?”    
  
You don’t open your eyes, just hum sleepily, leaning up into the feeling of your husband’s hand smoothing over your forehead.    
  
“You okay, sweetness?”    
  
You nod a little, blindly reaching out for Borracho and hooking your fingers in his shirt. You tug, hearing him chuckle and feeling the bed dip as he sits on the daybed and leans over you.    
  
“Long day?” He murmurs. You hum again, letting your grip slacken a little.    
  
“How were the guys?” You ask quietly.    
  
“Fine. You know.”    
  
You nod a bit.    
  
“How are you?”  
  
“More awake than you are,” He teases. You wrinkle your nose, and he kisses the tip of it.    
  
“Look at me, huh?”    
  
You open your eyes, blinking some of the sleep away. You can’t help your smile as Borracho comes into focus, and you raise a hand, sliding it up and cupping his cheek.    
  
“Hiya, handsome,” You murmur. He grins, leaning down and kissing you.    
  
“Hey, beautiful.”    
  
You sigh, fighting your urge to draw him in. As badly as you want him, you aren’t going to take it too far.    
  
“I was thinking,” He leans back, “That we should go away for our anniversary this year.”    
  
You raise a brow, surprised. You hadn’t been expecting that.    
  
“Really?” You ask, sliding your hand down and hooking your fingers in his shirt collar, “Where to?”   
  
“We’ve got time to think about it,” Borracho shrugs, sliding his hand over your hip gently, “But we should work it out, give the team time to figure out coverage and ask Nadia to look after Lia, maybe?”    
  
You nod, smiling.    
  
“I like that idea,” You agree, sliding your hand over the side of Borracho’s neck, “Look at  _ you _ , Mr. Plan.”    
  
“I planned our engagement, didn’t I?”    
  
“Mm, true. That was a good night. Though I still have yet to see the inside of a hot sauce factory.” 

“Maybe for our tenth anniversary.”    
  
\--

“Thank you-- Sorry--”    
  
“Girl, stop apologizing,” Nadia swats you on the shoulder before she takes a sleeping Malia out of your arms, “Did we ever apologize before we handed you one of our kids? No. Now you guys have fun, don’t worry about the thing.” 

\--

You’re half-asleep. You smile as you feel Borracho’s hand slide up your back and settle at the nape of your neck. He massages the spot lightly, and you hum, tipping your head forward into the pillows. You’re a little sleepy, sure, but you’re not gonna shy away if the man wants to go again.    
  
“Know how I always know I’ve done you right?” He murmurs, lips skimming your shoulder.    
  
“You always do me right, Benny.”    
  
“Mm, but you know how I  _ really _ know?”    
  
You chuckle, ask, “How?”    
  
“You call me  baby , but you say it that quiet kinda drawn-out way, like the word's being pulled outta you.”    
  
“ _ Baby _ \-- Oh, shit,” You open your eyes and peer up at your husband as he flops back on the bed, laughing, “You know what, I hear it.”    
  
Borracho pushes himself back onto the pillows and reaches down, brushing his fingers over your cheek.    
  
“Hey,” He murmurs.    
  
“Mm?”    
  
“I been thinking…” He trails off, and you blink up at him, curious. He’s been springing little surprises on you lately, just like this.   
  
“Yeah?” You turn your head and kiss his knuckles. He smiles.    
  
“We should have another kid.”    
  
That takes you aback, and you blink up at him in shock for a moment. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but it wasn’t that.    
  
“How long have you been thinking this?” You ask.    
  
“A while,” He admits, “What do you think?”    
  
You hesitate before you push yourself up to sit beside him. You take hold of one of his hands, rest your head on his shoulder as you consider.   
  
“I... Think we’d have a  _ lot _ of ducks to get in a row before that,” You finally answer, “I mean the biggest thing would be a new house. We’ve only got the two bedrooms now, and you remember how up and down Lia was. Imagine the both of them in the same room-- Lia would be up all the time.”    
  
“We could have the crib in our room for a while.”    
  
“We’d still have to move  _ eventually _ , Ben. And…”    
  
You go quiet for a bit, and Borracho turns his head to look down at you, frowning.    
  
“What is it?” He asks quietly. You gnaw at your lip.    
  
“Well, it took us almost two whole years to conceive last time,” You remind him, “And that was when it was just us in the apartment, only our schedules to worry about. We’ve got Malia now, that’s not going to make that particular process any easier.”    
  
Borracho nods a little, brows jumping and lowering in the space of a few seconds as he takes that into account.    
  
“...Well, let’s start with this consideration first,” He says, “Do you want another child?”    
  
You think for a few moments.    
  
Things with Malia haven’t always been easy - your work schedules are crazy, you always worry when you or Borracho go in now; Malia’s still in the throws of her terrible two’s; if it takes you just as long to conceive this time, she’ll be  _ four _ by the time she has a sibling; you’re not getting any younger, and neither is Borracho.    
  
But for as hard as things have felt sometimes, you wouldn’t trade the experiences you’ve had with Benny and Malia for the world. You lift your head and nod at Borracho. He grins and rests his forehead against yours.    
  
“We will figure out the house thing,” He promises.    
  
“And the other thing?” You ask.    
  
“...You gonna sock me in the arm if I say ‘practice makes perfect’?”    
  
You stifle a snicker and bite your lip to keep your smile from widening. You shake your head.    
  
“I won’t, I’ll just think about it.”    
  
\--   
  
“You think she’ll be all pouty?” You ask.    
  
“I think she’ll be too excited to pout.”    
  
“I don’t know, Ben, she wanted a little sister. She even put it on her Christmas list for Santa.”    
  
“Well,” Borracho sits on the bed beside you and looks down at the baby suckling at your breast, “She can write a letter to the complaints department at the North Pole if she’s  _ really _ put out about it.”    
  
You giggle a little bit, glancing up at him. Borracho tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, grinning.    
  
“How’re you feeling, Mama?” He murmurs.    
  
“Oh...Just tired, right now,” You sigh. Borracho’s phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket, peering down at it.    
  
“I’m gonna go get ‘em from the front desk.”    
  
“‘Kay,” You smile as he pecks your lips before leaving. You look down at your son and smooth his hair back. He’s got more hair than Lia did when she was born, and it’s dark, like his father’s. The babe leans away from your breast with a wide yawn, and a coo, and you shush him softly as you shift him, replacing your hospital gown.    
  
“You ready to meet your baby brother, Lia-Bean?” You hear Borracho coming in, and you smile, looking up as Borracho comes in with Lia balanced against his hip. His sisters and mother are behind, balloons and flowers in their hands.    
  
“Brother?” Lia squeals, and you chuckle, watching your three year old squirm in Borracho’s arms. He shushes her softly, setting her down on the side of the bed.    
  
“We have to be very quiet and careful,” You warn her, but you grin as Malia stares down at the new baby in wonder.    
  
“Did you guys pick a name yet?” Isobel asks.    
  
“Xavier,” You glance up at her, “Xavier John Magalon.”    
  
You see the slight wobble in Regina’s lip at the use of her late husband’s name, the mistiness in her eyes, and she nods a little bit, leaning against Nadia. You look down, watching Malia tentatively pet Xavier’s hand.    
  
\--   
  
“Sit, sweetness,” You hear, but you wave Borracho off as you start picking up some of the dishes from dinner.   
  
“I’ve got it.”    
  
“So stubborn,” Borracho teases. He takes the plates out of your hands and heads into the kitchen.    
  
“Are they down?” You ask, following him. Borracho hums the affirmative as he puts the dishes in the dishwasher (an upgrade- your last kitchen didn’t have one). You look around the kitchen, considering whether or not you want to change out the cabinets. You’re still thinking about it when Borracho steps in front of you and cups your cheeks, drawing you in for a kiss. You sigh, sliding a hand up into his hair and drawing him in.    
  
“Tell you what,” He murmurs, “Both of ‘em are down... You know what that means?”    
  
“We should try to get like two hours of sleep before Xavier’s up again?”    
  
“Exactly.” 


End file.
